


Before the Fall

by ionthesparrow



Series: Hockey at the End of the World [2]
Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, Philadelphia Flyers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 55,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His place on this team is inked down on paper, stitched into the fabric of his sweater.  Nothing’s going to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> So when I posted the first part of this series, I included a request for volunteers to help me with audiencing/editing/cheerleading this part - and man, oh, man - you guys totally came through. You guys are the best, and I could not have done this without you. Seriously. 
> 
> Of everyone who offered their time and expertise, I really need to call out [empathapathique](http://archiveofourown.org/users/empathapathique) \- who put so much thought and effort into this story you'd think it was her own, [staraflur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/staraflur/) \- for all her words of encouragement, and [puckling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/puckling) \- for super fast feedback, and for being willing to discuss the hockey news of the day with me, even when there was no hockey news to discuss. You guys are awesome.
> 
> Warnings for: Sex, language, and bad shit happening to good people.
> 
> Hockey notes follow at the end.

It’s early – the sun is just starting to dart the surface of the water with pink and orange. There’s not a lot moving, and no sound but the tree frogs and the water lapping at the reeds and at the base of the dock. It’s calm as far out as he can see, until he loses the view to the mist and the clinging fog. 

This is his lake. 

This is his lake, and he knows every inch of it. He knows all the dark, mossy spots where the bass hide, and the overhung parts where the carp jump; knows the deep water straits and the sandbars and where you’re likely to run aground if you’re not paying attention. He knows where the ice is the best in winter, and where it gets slushy and thin. He knows every curve of the perimeter and every path down the hill to the lake’s surface, including the game trails and the rabbit run. All of it. 

His thoughts are interrupted when a cup of coffee is set down next to his elbow. Mike glances over, and, okay, technically, it’s really that guy’s – the lake, the house, the view, the mug, all of it. 

His dad leans out over the railing, cradling his own cup. “You ready to go back?” 

“No.” Mike takes a sip. Everything about the Orange seems impossibly distant. And it seems unfair, to get to come back here, and then to have to _leave_. 

His dad laughs a little, places one hand between his shoulder blades. “You’ll always have this to come back to.” 

The mist is breaking up. It’ll be gone in an hour or so. “Well, I’m working on that anyway,” Mike says. When he looks over his dad’s smile seems a little more serious, a little more sad. He slides his arm around Mike’s shoulders. 

“I know,” he says. 

 

 

 

 

His first indication that he’s hit the big leagues is that the Orange puts him up in an honest-to-god hotel for training camp, just around the corner from the ice center. And, _holy shit,_ thinks Mike, if making the roster means never having to freeze solid in a cot half a foot off the ground ever again, then he is going to _work his fucking ass off in training camp._ He dumps his stuff on the bed and stands there, blinking for a minute. Either this is a dream, or being back home over the summer was – it seems impossible that they should both be able to exist. 

He heads down to the lobby to see if any of the guys are around yet, and to find food. He makes it less than three steps out of the elevator before he gets side-tackled into a hug. 

“Mike Richards! Look at you, you’ve grown!” 

“Sharpie. Jesus, I have not! Get off me!” Mike shoves at him. It’s pretty ineffective. 

Sharpie pulls back when he’s good and ready. “Sure you have.” He leans away and squints at Mike critically. “Maybe not that much physically, but don’t think I didn’t hear about the ‘A’.” 

Mike shrugs. “Eh, well. Starting over back at the bottom now, right?” 

Sharpie nods sagely and claps him on the shoulder. Hard. “That you are. Come on, you want to get something to eat? Something tells me I have your undivided attention for exactly as long as it takes Carter to show up.” 

They go into a part of the hotel that a sign informs them is a “Café” even though it’s still got an enormous wooden bar running down the center of it. Sharpie orders a ton of food and charges it all to Mike’s room. “What?” he says under Mike’s skeptical gaze. 

“You don’t have a room?” Mike asks. 

“Naw – I’m living in players’ quarters at Wachovia.” Sharpie leans forward, conspiratorially. “They pay me, so they expect me to buy my own food. You, however, still get to eat for free. See how that works?” 

Mike scoffs. “Great, so you’re just hanging out with me to get a free meal?” 

“Wounded, Richie, I’m wounded.” Sharpie claps a hand over his heart. “No, I want to hear all about how you managed to win the Calder Cup without me. Obviously, I already know everything, but I’d like to hear it from your perspective.” 

So Richie tells him. 

After they eat, Sharpie orders two coffees, which he tops off with a generous splash from a flask that miraculously appears in his hands and disappears just as fast. 

Mike toasts him and nods his thanks. 

“So,” Sharpie says, “speaking of Carter.” 

They hadn’t been, but Mike still sets his cup down, curious. 

“Rumor has it if he has a decent showing in training camp, they’re going to start him on the first line. With Forsberg and Gagne.” Sharpie lifts his eyebrows significantly. 

Mike twists a little under his gaze. “Oh, yeah?” He can’t help frowning a little, and the dregs of his coffee are suddenly very interesting. 

“Yeah,” Sharpie prods. When Mike doesn’t say anything else, he leans forward. “It’s okay. You can say it. I won’t tell anybody.” 

Mike frowns and gives him a warning look. “I’m not going to badmouth my best friend.” 

“Fine, then,” Sharpie says, holding out his hands. “I’ll say it – he’s never played on a line where he has to watch his own back, before. And the first line of an NHL team is maybe not the best place to start.” 

Mike rolls his eyes. “You’re such a dick, Sharpie.” 

“Yeah, well, you are too – I know you. But,” he tips his chin to point toward the lobby, “you’re _his_ dick.” 

Mike looks over, and there’s Jeff, looking a little dazed, a little road-weary, and dragging his bag towards the front desk. 

“Go on,” Sharpie says. Mike tears his gaze away to look back to Sharpie. He’s got an indulgent look on his face. “Go on,” he says again, “shoo.” 

Mikes smiles and prays he’s not actually blushing. But if the look Sharpie is giving him is any indication, he definitely is. 

 

 

“Hey,” he says, pulling up short in front of Jeff. 

Jeff stops and blinks at him. He looks tired, Mike notices, like, _really_ tired. And then he smiles – the same, wide, goofy grin as ever. The same grin that makes Mike feel soft and stupid all over. 

And, _oh yeah, Richards,_ he tells himself, _you’ve still got it,_ bad. 

“Hey,” Jeff answers. 

It occurs to Mike that maybe beaming at each other in the middle of the hotel lobby is not the least embarrassing way to start training camp. “Do you want… I could give you a hand, with your stuff? If you want?” 

Jeff shrugs and nods, “Sure.” He digs out his keycard, “I’m in… 303.” 

 

 

Jeff’s room looks exactly like Mike’s room. Obviously. Jeff sits down heavily on the bed and sighs. “I want a shower. And food. Is there food here?” 

Mike nods. “There’s even room service here.” 

“Seriously?” Jeff blinks, looking surprised. 

“Yeah, man. We’ve hit the big time.” There’s a beat of silence wherein Mike feels acutely awkward. He gestures vaguely at the door. “Do you want me to…?” 

But Jeff just rubs his eyes. “Order some food, will you? Whatever looks good. I’m going to shower.” 

So Mike does. Then he drums his fingers on the desk, restless. He flips the TV on then off again. Maybe he should leave? The shower cuts off and Jeff emerges, clad in shorts, the towel draped around his neck. And, okay, maybe Mike stares a little. So sue him. 

“What?” Jeff asks, pulling the towel up to dry his hair. 

A knock at the door saves him from having to answer. Jeff tosses him a _you’re being weird_ glance and gets the door. He sits down heavily on the edge of the bed and inhales his food. 

Mike eyes him again, more critically this time. “You’re supposed to gain weight over the summer, not lose it.” 

Jeff pauses eating long enough to roll his eyes at Mike. He shrugs. “I got sick.” 

Mike frowns. 

Jeff quickly holds up a placating hand. “I got better.” Right, like _that_ is going to totally preempt Mike’s worry. He pushes his empty plate away. “You ate?” he asks Mike. 

“Yeah, I ate with Sharpie.” 

“Sharpie!” Jeff grins. “How’s Sharpie?” 

Mike shrugs. “Same old Sharpie.” 

Jeff nods, and then he yawns hugely. 

Mike snorts. “It’s late.” He twists the chain holding his PerT tags around his fingers. “I should go.” 

“Um.” Jeff is plucking absently at the comforter. “You could – stay,” he says, finally looking over at Mike. 

Mike swallows. With anybody else, it’d be pretty clear what that means. But who the hell knows what Jeff Carter is thinking at any given time? “Uh.” 

“If you wanted to,” Jeff adds in a rush. “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. Obviously.” He glances at the door. 

And that is when Mike becomes suddenly, acutely, aware that this is the first time they’ve been alone together, with a locked door between them and anybody else. 

Distantly, he knows this is not supposed to be a big deal. 

Jeff is still watching him; Mike notices he seems to be breathing awfully fast. 

Which, Mike may not be breathing at all, actually, so maybe it’s a good balance. He slides forward to the edge of his chair, so their knees brush, Jeff watching him carefully the whole time. He stretches a hand across the space between them, letting it rest on Jeff’s chest, just beneath where his PerT tags hang. 

They both freeze, the only movement where he can feel Jeff’s chest rising and falling under his fingertips. 

And – _maybe_ this is what Jeff wants? But what if it _isn’t?_

Mike bites his lip, makes himself look up, meet Jeff’s eyes. “Carts – Jeff – you have to tell me, you have to say _something_ – ” 

Jeff slides his hand to cover Mike’s, weaves their fingers together, and uses the grip to tug Mike closer still. He’s nodding just the tiniest bit. 

Close enough. Mike kisses him. 

Either it’s the wrong angle, or they’re just bad at this, but it’s awkward, just a rough press of lips, and their teeth clack together lightly. Mike pulls back a little. Jeff’s pupils are blown and his lips are shiny, wet. All Mike can hear is the thudding of his own pulse in his ears, and he has to take a split second to steady himself. Then he tips Jeff’s chin slightly. “Here. Like this.” 

Turns out, as with everything he attempts on the ice, Jeff is a ridiculously fast study at this. Mike can _feel_ the second everything clicks for him – Jeff relaxes , his hand slides up to cup Mike’s jaw, and then further, fingertips pressing into the nape of his neck. Mike has to break away, and possibly, whimper a little in a perfectly embarrassing fashion that he is not going to examine too closely right now. 

Because he has better things to do. Like watch Jeff’s mouth split into a happy, Cheshire smile. He’s flushed. “I missed you,” he says simply. 

And really, it’s all Mike can do to nod. 

Jeff leans forward, kisses him again. Then he falls back against the mattress, and pulls Mike with him. They work their way awkwardly up the bed. “I missed you too,” Mike manages to get out. His voice sounds thick, harsh. He pulls Jeff towards him, so he can get his arms around him, tangle their legs together like they’ve done a hundred times before. Although, maybe not quite like this. Jeff heaves a long sigh, relaxes against him. 

Mike slides a hesitant hand downward, to press against where he can feel Jeff hard, through his shorts. “Do you want? I could…” 

And Jeff does that _thing_ he does, where he pulls this otherworldly innocence out of nowhere. He manages to look _surprised._ He blinks at Mike. And then he does that _other thing_ he does, and his expression gets suddenly shuttered and anxious. He starts to pull away, “Mike, what if they’re _watching?_ If we get _caught –_ ” 

“Shh. Hey.” Mike takes a firm hold on Jeff’s shoulder. “Nobody’s watching, Jeff.” He can’t help it – he presses a kiss to his forehead, the corner of his mouth. “We’re not going to get caught.” 

Jeff looks skeptical. “You don’t know that.” 

“The door’s locked, isn’t it?” Mike smiles his best reassuring smile. “That’s the law – right? They can’t put cameras behind any locked doors? In private rooms?” 

“You believe that?” Jeff bites his lip. 

Mike sighs. “Even if they did – I don’t think we matter enough. I think as long as we’re playing hockey like good like soldiers they don’t give a fuck what we do. And even if there _were_ cameras, I don’t believe there’s anybody on the other end.” 

Jeff looks far away for second; he’s frowning hard, but just when Mike thinks he’s lost him, Jeff meets his eyes. He slides his hand from Mike’s shoulder up to the nape of his neck. Strokes his thumb over Mike’s jaw. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Mike kisses him again, lets his teeth drag over Jeff’s lip. 

Jeff’s mouth hangs open slightly. His eyes are bright in the low light. He tugs at Mike’s shirt. “Take this off.” 

Mike grins, happy to comply. He brings his hands to his belt and hesitates, looking to Jeff. 

“Yeah,” Jeff says thickly, “those too.” 

Mike wriggles out of his pants and kneels on the bed. Jeff stretches his hands out, and Mike lets himself be pulled down. He ends up with one knee on either side of Jeff’s hips, one of Jeff’s hands buried in his hair, and the other roaming across his chest, his shoulders. It’s new and oddly familiar all at the same time. “Jeff,” he says, because he is really pretty far past dignity at this point, “Jeff, _please –_ ” 

“Yeah,” Jeff breathes, “Yes, _Jesus,_ Mike – whatever you want.” 

And that’s all the permission Mike needs to press their hips together, to rub off against Jeff, and to slide a hand down to make sure Jeff gets off too. It happens embarrassingly quickly. 

After a minute, Jeff prods him. “Get off me. You’re heavy. And… sticky.” 

Mike laughs, but rolls to the side. Jeff’s eyes look heavy-lidded, sleepy. He snaps Jeff’s waistband. “Come on, give me your shorts.” 

Jeff frowns at him, but lifts his hips and complies. Mike rinses out both pairs in the bathroom sink, hangs them over the shower rod to dry. He brings a towel back for Jeff, who actually _blushes_ a little as he’s cleaning himself off, and Mike is far gone enough to find that endearing. 

Jeff folds the blankets back and when Mike lies down, he curls himself around him, tucks his arm around Mike’s waist. It’s a lot like he never left. 

 

 

 

 

They screw around in the morning, too. 

Actually, they screw around all the time now. Probably too much. Probably they should be integrating with their new potential teammates or grilling the vets for pointers or something. But then Mike will catch Jeff _looking_ at him, or Jeff will pull off some spectacularly improbably move out on the ice, and one of them will come up with some flimsy excuse to slip away, to come back to one of their rooms. They’re inevitably sort of frantic – these short interludes, and Mike’s got an abundance of bruises that match the span of Jeff’s fingerprints and shirts that are missing buttons. But whatever. He doesn’t know about Jeff, but Mike has about a year’s worth of sexual frustration to work through. 

And apparently, the Orange decided to get rid of something like two thirds of their team over the break – so dev camp is basically a reunion with, like, half the population of last year’s Phantoms team. Which is to say, a group of people who have been well trained in the fact that Sometimes Mike and Jeff Need to Just Disappear and No One Should Ask Too Many Questions, Okay? And if they hadn’t been fucking then – and they _weren’t,_ Mike and his epic, months-long case of blue balls can attest to that – and everyone made dumb assumptions, well – Mike is prepared to forgive them, because they’re making up for it now. 

Except for Sharpie – who clearly thinks himself exempt from the rules. He’s currently pounding on the door. “I don’t care what you’re doing in there! There’s free food and _Slap Shot_ downstairs, and you need to come out and pretend to be sociable!” 

Jeff looks up from where he’s sprawled against Mike. He has his hand down Mike’s shorts. “Ugh – Sharpie – fine! Just give me five minutes!” 

“You have two before I start trying to pick the lock!” 

Jeff rolls his eyes. 

“You know he’ll do it, too,” Mike says. 

Jeff presses his forehead into Mike’s shoulder and sighs, because he totally, totally _would._

Sharpie’s actually _waiting_ in the hallway for them, arms folded, tapping his foot. Mike glares at him. “ _Thanks,_ Sharpie.” 

Sharpie smiles beatifically. He pulls out his flask and takes a long pull. He offers it to Jeff, who shakes his head, and Mike. “No, thanks.” 

Sharpie shrugs; his fingers fumble a little as he re-caps it. “So come on,” he says, and starts leading them down the hall. 

One of the hotel’s dining rooms has been set up with a buffet and a projector, and a bunch of the guys are sprawled out in front of it. It’s early in the movie yet – the Hanson brothers have just made their first appearance, so Mike loads up a plate and finds a seat, and that’s when he figures out why Sharpie made them put in an appearance. Because Peter _fucking_ Forsberg is here. Mike’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth. 

In addition to pulling from their farm team, the Orange made a bunch of trades to add some vets, and even though Mike knew Forsberg was one of them, it hadn’t quite sunk in that he was going to be _here._

He’s just sitting there, drinking Gatorade and eating and laughing at something their captain – Primeau – is saying – as if he were a normal human being and not some kind of Hockey God. It’s not fooling anybody. Even the few, remaining, long-term Orange players are interacting with him with an air of subtle reverence, and the rookies – well, it’s safe to say the rookies are not so much interacting with him as outright staring and hanging on every word. Which Mike totally gets – this is a guy who won his _first_ Stanley Cup when Mike was _eleven._ And he’s still amazing – he won the Art Ross _and_ the Hart two years ago. And now he is sitting in the _same room_ as Mike. They could be playing on the _same team._ He elbows Jeff. 

“What – _oh.”_ Jeff blinks, and stares, and blinks some more. And then he sets his plate aside and walks up to Forsberg and introduces himself, like it’s no big thing. Mike’s jaw goes a little slack as he watches them shake hands; Forsberg smiles and says something, and Jeff laughs. 

There’s no way Mike’s going to be shown up like that. He summons his balls and heads over there. 

Jeff smirks at him, a little. “This is my friend, Mike Richards – he also plays center.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Forsberg says, shaking his hand. “Congratulations on your Calder Cup win.” 

“Thank you.” Mike is extremely fucking impressed with himself for his even tone of voice. 

“Eh,” Primeau breaks in, “Forsberg – I want you meet this guy.” He’s pulling over Gagne, and a couple of the other newly arrived vets. Forsberg smiles at Mike again and turns away. 

Back in their seats Mike picks his fork up. Puts it down. Picks it up again. He plucks at Jeff’s sleeve. “Carts. That was Peter _Forsberg.”_

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Richie. I know. Jesus.” He gives Mike a look that’s somewhere between skeptical and indulgent. “Should I be jealous?” 

“Peter Forsberg.” 

Jeff sighs. “He was nice, wasn’t he?” 

 

 

 

 

The season is drawing closer. Mike’s pleased that he seems to remember how to play well, how to skate, and how to hit. And Coach Hitchcock seems vaguely happy with his progress; he has him centering Simmy, who he played with last year – so that’s great, and Handzus – a great, hulking import, who’s on his fourth pro team in eight years, and thus has the air of a man who doesn’t expect to be around very long, but is nonetheless having a good time while he’s here. They have the makings of a really nice, tough, defensive line, and Mike likes their prospects. 

Jeff – just as Sharpie promised – Coach has playing with Gagne and Forsberg. 

Mike’s watching them now. And it’s – it’s fucking beautiful hockey. Gagne is a total pro, Forsberg is _Forsberg,_ and Jeff skates like no one ever told him it’s supposed to be hard. They’re all fast, together their movements have this incredible, almost choreographed, grace to them, the passing is textbook perfect, the shots on net are _spectacular,_ and – 

“Oh, _god,_ ” Sharpie interrupts his musings, slumping down next to him, “who thought this was a good idea?” 

Mike winces and sighs. “They’re going to get flattened, aren’t they?” Because Sharpie’s _right._ All three of them play with this beautiful, exuberant grace – meaning all three of them play like checking doesn’t exist. And even though they’re supposed to be scrimmaging, no one on the Orange is going to go all out against Peter _fucking_ Forsberg; no one wants to be the guy that accidently injures the top line, which means that they’ve managed to waltz through training camp without taking _any_ real, serious hits. 

“Pffft,” Sharpie dismisses. “Forsberg’s been in the NHL for eleven years, Gagne’s been around for six. They know how to get out of trouble. Carter, now, _he’s_ going to get flattened.” 

Mike squeezes the bridge of his nose, feeling the beginnings of an epic migraine. He glances over at Sharpie out of the corner of his eye. 

Sharpie shrugs. “Just calling it like I see it.” 

Mike’s tried bringing it up with Jeff, he really has. “So, about you playing on a line with Forsberg and Gagne,” he’d said. 

Jeff had smiled, bright and relaxed, looking as happy as Mike’s ever seen him. “Yeah. It’s fun.” 

And Mike – god help him – is just not a strong enough guy to be the one to take that away from him. 

 

 

 

 

He gets a roster spot. Jeff gets a roster spot (duh). They celebrate publically with dinner with the team, which involves an official welcome from their captain, the coaching staff, and Clarke, who is there for all of five minutes before ducking out. They celebrate privately by sneaking back to Mike’s hotel room at the first available opportunity. Jeff crowds him against the wall as soon as the door swings shut. They stare at each other, frozen for a second, and then Mike feels his face split in a wide grin. Jeff smiles back at him and laughs. 

“The _NHL,_ Jeff,” Mike says, shaking Jeff’s shoulders lightly. “The NHL. Us. We. Playing for the NHL.” 

Jeff leans down, rests his forehead against Mike’s. “You’re pretty excited.” 

“ _You’re_ pretty excited.” Mike leans in and starts yanking Jeff’s shirt out his pants. 

Jeff laughs. “Yeah,” he admits, sounding shy but pleased. 

Mike starts working on his belt. “The NHL. And on a contender team. A shot at The Cup.” He pauses to glance up, give Jeff a significant look. “A step towards Free Agency and being able to tell the Union to go fuck themselves.” 

Jeff flushes and then his eyes get dark and he kisses Mike, long and hard, until Mike needs to breathe or sit down or both. And then he takes advantage of Mike’s light-headed distraction to get Mike’s belt undone, and shoves his pants down, his actions getting a little rough, a little hurried in a way Mike is totally fine with. 

He shoves at Mike’s hips until he falls back onto the bed. But then, instead of following him down, he says, “Hold still. I want to try something.” And since lately, when Jeff wants to _try something,_ it ends with goals scored or orgasms, Mike goes with it. And then Jeff sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, positions himself between Mike’s legs. His eyes flick up to meet Mike’s briefly, and then he tentatively runs his lips up the length of Mike’s cock. 

_Oh._

Mike makes it until Jeff actually slides the head into his mouth, and then he can’t help it, his hips jerk involuntarily. Jeff pulls back and glares at him. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Mike let’s himself fall back, catching himself on propped elbows to watch Jeff. Jeff starts again, this time keeping his hands on Mike’s hips. He’s slow, and careful. It is _such_ a tease. “Ugh.” Mike collapses all the way back and throws an arm across his face. He knows better than to rush him. Odds are when Jeff’s ready to take direction, he’ll let Mike know. So, Jeff keeps up his cautious, thorough examinations and Mike squeezes his eyes shut, bites down on a knuckle, and just _deals_ with the total lack of oxygen making it to his brain. 

“Okay,” Jeff says finally, “Tell me – ” 

_“Suck,”_ Mike pleads. And, “Faster.” His hands twist in the blanket. He tries skimming one hand across Jeff’s head, and that seems to encourage him, so he keeps it up. He’s close, he’s _so, so,_ close. _“Jeff,”_ he warns, then shoves him away. He finishes in his own hand, coming so hard his abs cramp. 

“Uh.” When he manages to slit his eyes open, Jeff is sprawled next to him looking smug. “Uh,” Mike says again. He could maybe sleep for a week. Jeff has other ideas. He pokes at Mike’s shoulder, presses his hips against him. “Now do me,” he says. 

Like he could say no to that. 

Afterwards, Jeff stretches out next to him, long and cat-like. “Have you… done that before?” he asks. 

Mike blinks and pulls back from the edge of sleep. “Um. I’ve… gotten head, before. I’d never, you know, _given.”_

Jeff frowns at his awkwardness, then he pauses, considering. “Was this okay?” 

And why Jeff Carter can’t just pass out after blowing a load, like a normal person, Mike will never know. But he smiles. “Yeah, man. This was okay. This was better than okay.” 

Jeff looks thoughtful, the expression on his face one he gets when he’s working up to something. So Mike waits. “Have you ever had sex?” Jeff asks. His cheeks are pink. 

Mike scrubs a hand over his face. “Like with a girl? Yeah.” 

“Really?” he sounds surprised. 

“Yeah, there were a couple girls back in Kenora – back home – that I, you know.” He looks over at Jeff, who is watching him with a speculative face. It is clear he doesn’t know. “You’ve never…?” Mike asks. 

Jeff scoffs. “You remember what life was like last year, in the AHL? It’s basically the same in juniors. That’s been my life since I was, like, fourteen.” He shrugs. “I could probably count on my fingers the number of times I’ve _talked_ to a girl.” 

“Jeez. No wonder you’re so messed up,” Mike says breezily, before he can think any better of it. 

Jeff stiffens next to him. 

Mike runs that last line back in his head. “Jeff, hey – ” 

“How messed up am I?” Jeff’s voice is tight. 

He rolls on top of Jeff, braces himself so he can look down into Jeff’s face. “Exactly the right amount of messed up. Just like me, okay? Just the right amount.” 

Jeff relaxes by degrees beneath him. 

Mike breathes a sigh of relief. “Let’s sleep, okay?” And finally, Jeff sighs, tugs him into place next to him, and closes his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

It turns out being officially on the roster for the Orange means he has to do lots of things – weirdly, many of them having nothing to do with hockey. First, he gets sent to an admin office deep in bowels of Wachovia to get assigned a room in Players’ Quarters. That’s easy enough. The round-faced woman behind the desk smiles at him and hands him his PerT tag back. “7747. It’s in the rookie wing,” she says apologetically. “They’re small.” _Lady,_ he does not say out loud, _you have no idea what an improvement this is._

He gets sent next door to have his PerT clearance adjusted. He gets a new picture taken. “Smile,” the guy says. Mike doesn’t smile. No one ever smiles in their PerT pictures. 

“Okay,” the guy tells him, “you’re now cleared to travel within Philadelphia.” 

“What, like, anywhere in the city?” Mike asks suspiciously. 

“That’s right. You are now free to move about Philly.” He smiles blandly. 

_“Anywhere?”_ Mike asks again. 

_“Yes,”_ the guy answers, starting to sound a touch exasperated. “Anywhere.” He pushes a cheap city map across the desk at Mike. “Learn it, use it, love it. Now go away.” 

He is scheduled for a “PR consult” next. Whatever that is. He passes Simmy in the hallway outside the PR office, headed the other way. Simmy gives him a weird, wide-eyed look. “Good luck,” he says, and hurries away. 

Mike knocks and pushes the door open. 

“Richie!” It is such a high-pitched shriek that Mike almost doesn’t recognize it as his _name._ It sounds more like some animal’s alarm call. 

“It is, ‘Richie’, right?” she continues. She is blond, pretty, and stylish in a way that still manages to follow all the rules – her skirt hits her ankles. Her jacket sleeves cover her wrists. She flashes a smile at him so white he thinks at first she has a mouth guard in. “I’m Sarah. This is Tessa, she’s learning on the job today,” She gestures towards a younger woman standing behind her, that Mike hadn’t noticed at first. 

Mike nods warily at both of them. 

“Now,” she says seriously to Tessa, “ _’Richie’_ is going to have a few connotations with some of our older patrons.” She turns back to face Mike, “But that’s not your target demo, so don’t worry – you can keep it.” 

Mike is starting to strongly suspect that he’s missed something important. “Um. Good?” 

Sarah smiles brightly. “Richie, we’ve been hearing such _awesome_ things about you. Really, really great stuff.” She flips her hand out towards Tessa, who hurries to put a tablet in it. Sarah scrolls through it. “We’re heard you’re just a great all-around player, with real leadership potential.” She sighs and sets the tablet down. “And that is just _so important_ to us.” 

Yeah, he’s starting to get why Simmy looked like he was running away. “Thanks?” 

“I also love that you’re from a small town. I think small town boy moves to the big city is an angle we could really play up.” She glances back at Tessa. “Did you get that?” 

Tessa jots it down in the tablet. “Yes. That is _such_ a good idea.” 

Sarah nods solemnly. “So we have a lot of young guys among our fan base, lots of young guys who are still in the first third of their Work Placement. Just getting married. Starting families. With your youth, and your leadership skills, I think that’s going to be your target audience, Richie. I think you could be a real role model for them.” 

“Great.” Because what is he supposed to say to that? 

“So obviously, one of the first things we need to do is get you married – ” 

Whatever Sarah says after that, Mike misses, because he is choking on _air._

Sarah pauses and frowns at him. “Tessa, get Richie some water, will you?” 

“Can I?” Mike gestures at the couch weakly. 

“Of course!” 

Mike sits down, hard. He lets a glass of water be pressed into his hand. 

Sarah sits down across from him, crossing her legs gracefully. “So, here’s what I’m thinking – a whirlwind romance with a beautiful city girl – she represents Philadelphia, obviously, and you falling in love with the city.” She taps a nail to her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe the daughter of a prominent city icon? Like a City Councilman, or the Chief of Police? Oh that’s good – write that down, Tessa.” 

Tessa scrambles to comply. 

Sarah pulls the tablet back towards her and scrolls through it thoughtfully. “It says here your parents are Free Agents?” 

“Just my dad, actually,” Mike corrects. 

“Hmm. Maybe more like the daughter of a firefighter, then. _Oh,_ or a hero cop.” 

Tessa continues her mad scribbling. 

Sarah smiles at Mike again. “You know I think I know just the actress. She’s working out of New York, right now, but I bet we could convince her to come down for this.” She finally seems to take in Mike’s frankly terrified face. “Oh, don’t worry – she’s _super_ pretty. You’re going to love her!” 

She looks at the clock and widens her eyes dramatically. “Oh, goodness! Where does the time go? Well, this has been just _fantastic,_ Richie. Next, Tessa is going to take you down to Wardrobe.” She frowns critically at him. “Tessa, tell them I really want to play up the whole Small Town thing.” 

“Like… farmer?” Tessa asks. 

“No, more like lumberjack-meets-captain of the football team.” 

“Oh,” Tessa nods, “that is _so_ good.” 

“Mmm,” Sarah agrees. “And see if they can’t do something about his hair, will you?” 

 

 

Mike makes it back to his new room with less hair, considerably less certainty about his place in the world, but plus several plaid shirts. The room is small – the admin wasn’t kidding – little more than a bed and a bathroom, with just enough room for a dresser and a desk. But there’s also a flashy, new wall-mounted TV, and the desk comes pre-equipped with some inspirational texts. _Great,_ thinks Mike, _free doorstop._

But hey – it has a door that closes and locks. And it’s heated. Luxury. And while there are cameras in the hall, there aren’t any in here. He glances around. At least no obvious ones. He sets his bag down on the desk and begins to look around in earnest, because if this place is like literally every other spot a hockey player has ever occupied, there’s got to be a hidden stash spot somewhere. He starts by pulling the mattress off the bed, feeling along the edges. He runs his hands over the bed frame, but other than a few sets of scratched initials, he doesn’t find anything. The ceiling is solid plaster, but he tests each of the floor tiles for looseness. Nothing. Frowning, he pulls the bed away from the wall, slides his fingers along the edge of the baseboard. And then he hits a spot where it’s loose, where it wiggles away from the wall a bit. 

Bingo. 

Working it back and forth reveals just enough of a crack that he can slip his fingers inside. Stretching, his fingertips hit paper. He pulls the crumbly pages free from their hiding spot and smiles. Porn. Obviously. He replaces them, and then digs in his bag for his own additions. It’s not much that he’s got to hide – just a cash card linked to the dormant account of a dead uncle that would be good for a one time only parachute. And one extremely creased and beat up playing card that has I HATE THEM scrawled on it. And beneath that, in his own handwriting, YOU’VE GOT **ONE** WAY OUT OF HERE. 

He slides these items in with the yellowing porn, nudges the baseboard back into place, and pushes the bed flush with the wall. Then he stretches out on the bed, folding his hands behind his head. It’s quiet. Really quiet. 

He pops back up off the bed. Maybe some of the guys are in the communal kitchen at the end of the hall. 

In fact, Eager is there, smearing peanut butter on crackers. He mumbles something that sounds like _Hey, Richards_ around a mouthful of food. He holds out a cracker to Richie, and they eat in companionable silence. 

Simmy drifts in a few minutes later. He nods at Mike’s hair. “I see they got you.” 

Mike shrugs. “You?” 

Simmy rolls his eyes, disgusted. “She called me _Simmer._ ” 

“Ugh,” says Eager. “That’s rough. Wait – Simmer? Like a slow Boyle? Get it?” 

Mike snorts and Simmy glowers at both of them. “Yeah, well, you just wait,” he tells Eager, “You’ll get yours.” 

Eager shrugs apparently unconcerned. “Hey, you figured out where Sharpie’s getting his booze, yet?” 

Good question. Mike shakes his head. “No.” 

Eager frowns. “I keep asking him, and he keeps jerking me around – last time he told me, _‘One does not simply walk into where I buy my booze, Eager’_ and some shit about black gates.” 

Mike laughs, because that does sound like something Sharpie would say. 

Simmy turns towards him. “Hey – get Carts to ask him. He likes Carter.” 

“Get Carter to ask who what?” Jeff asks, walking in. He beelines for Eager’s peanut butter. 

“Ask Sharpie where he’s getting his booze,” Eager reiterates. 

Jeff frowns, poking through the kitchen’s cabinets and drawers. “Where the fuck do we keep spoons around here?” 

Mike pulls open the drawer he’s been leaning against, and Eager finally twigs to what’s about to happen. “Hey, man! That’s mine – I _bought_ it.” He emphasizes the last bit, sounding pleased. Buying things is a relatively new experience. 

Jeff holds the jar up, out of reach. “You want the inside track on alcohol or not?” 

Eager glares and folds his arms across his chest. “Fine.” 

Simmy watches Jeff eat with a disgusted look on his face. “Man, that is _gross._ ” He turns to Eager. “You want to catch a movie or something?” 

Eager shrugs. “Sure.” 

“Richie? Carts?” 

“Naw, man. I’m good.” 

Jeff just shakes his head, mouth full. 

Mike watches them leave. “You have your PR thing today?” 

Jeff scowls and swallows. “I’m a fun-loving fan favorite with a rebellious streak,” he deadpans. “I’m supposed to start wearing leather.” 

Mike is sort of horrified. “Oh, god. They’re not going to get you a motorcycle, are they? You’ll kill yourself in 10 seconds flat.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes and then hip-checks him. “You want to see my room?” 

“Sure,” Mike says, because he knows a good euphemism when he hears one. 

 

 

Later, Jeff is pressed up behind him, absently rubbing circles around Mike’s hip. Mike is happy, and relaxed, and clearly not at his intellectual peak when he says, “the Orange’s PR lady wants me to get married.” 

Jeff’s hand stops moving. _“What?”_

Mike twists around so he can see Jeff’s face. Jeff is frowning. “Married. She said I have to get married so I can be a role model.” 

Jeff shakes his head. “You can’t get _married._ ” 

“Well, I wasn’t planning on going through with it!” He lets some of his exasperation color his voice. 

Jeff’s frown deepens. “Can they even do that? Tell you to get married?” 

“I don’t know. No? I don’t think so.” Mike shrugs. He reaches out to toy absently with the chain of Jeff’s PerT tags. 

Jeff watches his hand for a minute, then looks up, thoughtful. “Would we have to stop? This, I mean. Would we stop if you got married?” 

And that’s a good question, isn’t it? Because it would, technically, be cheating. It would be wrong. And whatever poor girl they married him to, it wouldn’t be _her_ fault. He knows what the right answer is. 

But he can also feel where Jeff’s clutching his hip, hard. And what he wants is to stay here, or if anything, to twine an arm around Jeff’s neck and pull him _closer._ So he also knows what the truth is. “No.” Mike shakes his head. “I don’t think I could.” 

 

 

 

 

Mike throws up, approximately five minutes before they’re supposed to be on the ice for their first game. Jeff raises his eyebrows and passes his water bottle over. 

Mike drinks gratefully then frowns. “You brought my water bottle with you to the bathroom?” 

“You’re pretty predictable,” is all Jeff says. 

It’s the same, and different all at once. It’s _hockey_ –so there’s a rhythm to it, a pattern, one that Mike knows down in his bones. But it’s like someone jumped the tempo – everything’s faster. And it’s like his very best, those moments where he feels at the very top of his game – that level just became the minimum bar to entry. That’s what everybody’s playing at. All the time. 

His first shift is a blur of adrenaline and nerves and lasts what feels like 0.2 seconds. On the bench, Handzus reaches over and shakes his shoulder. “You survived!” Mike chooses to believe he sounds pleased rather than surprised. 

His second shift is easier, somewhat. The Red & Blue has a lot of veteran guys – and they’re not making a lot of mistakes. The player he’s chasing now is fast – and when Mike moves to intercept he just sort of… darts around him, like Mike’s not even there. 

Which, Mike doesn’t care _how long_ he’s been in the NHL, _fuck you._ So the next time he’s faster. And when the player moves to dangle around him, Mike’s able to get his stick in there. The Red  & Blue player’s eyes snap up to meet his and he squints, looking irritated. The player still manages to get a pass off, but hey – progress. He hits the bench breathing hard, and glances between Simmy and Zeus. Simmy’s eyes are bright; Zeus just nods, smiles at Mike, and thumps him on the shoulder again. _Okay,_ Mike thinks, _this could work,_ and turns his attention back to the ice. 

Watching Jeff – it’s not as bad as it could be. He’s not, like, being actively trampled or anything. It’s more like whenever he gets the puck, he gets politely but firmly shoved off it. And Jeff – he’s got this magnetic draw to the puck. It’s part of what makes him so fucking awesome at hockey – he always knows where it is, and he always wants it. So it’s frustrating to watch him not be able to near it. 

In contrast to Jeff’s line, Mike’s line is getting defensive zone starts, and his job is really simple: hassle guys into giving up the puck. Which means his goal in the second period is sort of an… accident? He catches a nice pass from Desjardins, who’s been with the Orange for literally, like, forever, and could probably hit the tape from a half mile out through traffic. And then he has a shot, so he just – takes it. That it goes _in_ is as much a surprise to him as anyone. 

“Hey, Rookie – not bad!” Primeau thumps him on the shoulder when he hits the bench. The rest of the guys follow his lead, and Mike’s helmet gets tapped till his ears are ringing. It feels good. 

Jeff congratulates him later, in his own way, in the privacy of Mike’s room, and that feels pretty good too. And after, Mike folds his hands under his head and looks up at the ceiling. He’s aware he probably has a stupid grin on his face, but so what? He scored a goal, and even if they lost, that still counts for something. And he’s got Jeff sprawled out next to him, warm and happy. He wonders absently if his family had watched the game. If his dad had seen him score. His throat is suddenly tight with the need to see their faces, hear their voices, hear that they _had_ seen – 

“What are you thinking about?” Jeff’s lying on his stomach, chin propped in his hands. “You look all – ” he waves one hand vaguely, “ – far away.” 

Mike hesitates. He sort of avoids talking about his family around Jeff – it tends to make him go all tight-lipped and quiet. Why, Mike doesn’t really know, just that family is one of the more dangerous minefields that dot Jeff Carter’s psyche. “Honestly? My parents. Just wondering if they were watching. If they saw the game.” He watches Jeff’s face carefully. 

Jeff frowns a little, twists his PerT tag chain between his fingers, but he doesn’t go all spacey and weird. “You know you can petition for long distance calls, right?” 

Mike shakes his head. As far as he knows the government controls long-distance communication pretty tightly. He’s never heard of _petitioning_ them about it. “What do you mean?” 

“You can petition to get to call them – once a month, once every couple months, whatever. There’s a form, you get it from the Communication Ministry.” Jeff chews his lip and ducks his head. “When I was first sent away, I submitted a petition to get to call my mom.” 

Mike blinks, distracted. He could probably count on one hand the number of times Jeff has mentioned his parents. The sentence: _Jeff’s mom works in a factory in London_ represents the sum total of Mike’s knowledge. Jeff has mentioned his dad exactly _once._ He said his dad was a librarian. Mike doesn’t know what the past tense implies. He hasn’t asked. “Did they give it you?” 

Jeff shakes his head. “No. But that doesn’t mean they won’t let you.” 

Mike frowns, because something about this is _not right._ “I thought you were just a kid when you were sent away? Why wouldn’t they let a kid call his mom?” 

Jeff glances over at him for just a second and then looks away. He’s back to chewing his lip. “It’s complicated,” he finally says. 

Mike rolls onto his side and props himself up on one elbow. “Look, I know it’s on the list of things we don’t talk about, but, if you did, want to – I would, I mean, we could.” 

Jeff raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t know there was a list.” 

Mike shrugs, then just gazes back at him and waits. 

“Look.” Jeff sighs. “It’s not interesting, it’s just… depressing.” 

“I don’t care if it’s _interesting._ I just thought you might want to talk about it.” 

Jeff is very still for a second, and then he rolls away from Mike. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to _think_ about it.” 

 

 

 

 

Mike is _awesome._ Seven games into the season he’s racked up eight points – three goals, five assists. Things are clicking with Zeus and Simmy. And at tonight’s game in the Blue  & White, he got awarded his first star. Which, okay, doesn’t really _mean_ anything, but it’s still cool. Things on the ice are going great. 

Off the ice, not so much. 

After their second game, Jeff was unceremoniously dumped off the first line. Unsurprisingly, he’s been pissy about it. Coach has him centering the fourth line – Sharpie and Brashear, and every time Mike tries to say, _you’re still playing, you’re still getting minutes, you haven’t been sent down, you’re still centering a line,_ Jeff gets this _look_ like he thinks he’s too good for the fourth line. 

Which – it drives Mike _crazy._ Because the guys pick up on stuff like that. Brashear especially looks like he might haul off and pop Jeff in the mouth as soon as pass to him half the time. And besides, Jeff has _no_ points on the board, and if he’s too good for the fourth line, he should maybe consider _playing_ like he’s too good for the fourth line. And, okay, maybe that slipped out in conversation one night, and it went over about as well as could be expected. 

Jeff’s been getting quieter and quieter, and sharper and shorter over the last two weeks. Lately, it’s like he can’t stand even being around Mike. And it just – it sucks. It really, really sucks. 

They’re staying in some anonymous hotel in Toronto, but when Mike makes it back to their shared room, it’s empty. He flips on the lights and leans against the door. After a minute he pushes off, and changes out of his stupid, stupid suit. It’s snowing hard outside, and they’re not supposed to leave the hotel anyway. He heads out to find – someone – and he hears Sharpie’s distinctive cackle from a couple doors down, so he knocks. 

Sharpie swings the door open wide. “Well! If it isn’t the man of the hour!” 

Mike glares. 

Sharpie’s eyes are a bit glazed, his smile a little too loose. Behind him, Mike can see Jeff sprawled in one of the chairs, long legs stretched out in front of him. Mike takes a step forward, but Sharpie catches him with a hand placed flat against his chest. “Ah, ah, ah. This pity party is for fourth string _only._ ” He leans forward. “You have to be on the list,” he confides. He is, Mike realizes, very drunk. 

Jeff snorts. “You mean Coach Hitchcock’s shit list?” 

That sets Sharpie off cackling again. “Hey kid,” he manages between wheezes, “you’re just visiting. I _live_ there.” 

Jeff starts giggling. After a beat Mike realizes with a touch more surprise, that Jeff is _also_ wasted. 

Sharpie pulls himself upright and scrunches his face up. “So, sorry,” he says, not sounding it in the least, and swings the door shut in Mike’s face. 

 

 

Right.

 

 

Mike stands there, his gut twisting, for what feels like a long time, but probably isn’t. 

“Hey, Richie!” Knuble appears at the end of the hallway; he’s bouncing a soccer ball off his knee. “There a huge ballroom downstairs. Wanna go see if they’ll kick us out for kicking the ball around?” 

“Absolutely,” Mike says. Kicking something sounds like a _great_ idea. 

 

 

 

 

Two nights later they play at home, against the Red & Navy. He hasn’t talked to Jeff, but then, he hasn’t really _seen_ Jeff, so he doesn’t know if they just haven’t talked or if they’re _not talking._ But their stalls are still next to each other in the locker room, so one way or the other it’s going to be awkward. Mike pulls his t-shirt over his head, and when he pops his head through, Jeff’s standing in front of him. 

“Hey, Richie.” Jeff sounds almost, a touch guilty. 

“Carts.” Mike keeps his voice flat. 

Jeff’s mouth twists and then he sits, keeping a healthy distance between them. 

Mike fastens the Velcro on his chest protector on with a touch more force than strictly necessary. 

Beside him, Jeff sighs. “Look,” he says, in a low voice that’s hard to hear over the ambient din of the locker room, “you don’t understand how hard it is for me – to be that good last year, and to _suck_ now – ” 

“Bullshit, I don’t understand,” Mike hisses back. “I was _there,_ remember?” 

Jeff throws him a sharp glare. 

“And let’s not forget,” Mike says, because he’s been more or less ignored for the last two weeks, and he’s feeling mean, “you had some pretty _craptastic_ games last year too. But when you had shitty games, I was _there_ for you. And when you had good games, I was _happy_ for you. Because I thought we were _friends._ ” 

Jeff’s jaw sets into a hard line and he’s staring straight ahead. 

“So if you think I don’t understand, then _fuck you,_ ” Mike finishes, and goes to put his skates on somewhere else. 

 

 

They’re down, playing sluggishly, like they could use some inspiration, so when one of the Red & Navy’s defensemen fucks with his stick one too many times, Mike thinks, _fuck it. Now’s as good as time as any to pop his cherry._ “Hey!” he snarls. _“You ready to go ?”_

“You, kid?” The D-man looks surprised. 

Mike glares. “Yeah. Me. Sticks?” 

“Fuck sticks,” he answers, and drops his gloves. 

_Even fucking better,_ Mike thinks, because he is always on board with hitting things. 

Mike basically gets his face punched in, but he’s too high on adrenaline to feel it, and his bench screams for him anyway. 

In the locker room after, getting his on-the-fly stitches and a cold compress pressed to his face, Mike hears the crowd screaming and the goal horn go off. He licks blood off his lip and smiles. He heads to the box to finish his time and he twists to ask the attendant behind him, “Who scored?” 

The attendant looks over. “Seventeen,” he says. “Carter.” 

 

 

He has to stop off to get his face fixed for real after the game, as opposed to the half-assed job they do during play, so it’s late by the time he makes it back to his room. He pushes the door open and freezes. Jeff is sitting at his desk. For a second, neither of them moves, then Mike mans up and shuffles inside, because it is _his_ goddamn room. He sets his bag down. Jeff’s holding a pen in his hand, and he’s got Mike’s Communication Petition – the one he’d been working on before the game sitting directly in front of him. 

Mike flushes hot, then cold, with a rush of – he doesn’t even know what – anger mostly, tinged with embarrassment or maybe fear. He had to write about his _feelings_ in that thing. About his _parents._ And he’s not – he’s not really sure he wants Jeff reading that. At least not now, anyway. 

Jeff swallows. “You left your door unlocked.” 

Mike shuts the door. Puts his back to it. “Nothing worth stealing in here.” 

Jeff nods slowly. He taps the petition with the pen he’s holding. “You shouldn’t… You shouldn’t say you miss home. They like to hear that you’re happy where you are. And you should mention something about your parents being your spiritual counselors or something.” 

Mike can’t actually bring himself to say anything, and the silence hangs. 

“Mike, I’m really sorry.” Jeff’s twisting the pen between his fingers, staring at it like it’s the most fascinating thing on the planet. “I’ve been an asshole, and I’m really, really sorry.” 

There’s some horrible, sharp feeling squeezing his throat. When he’s silent, Jeff finally looks up. His eyes are dangerously bright. Mike nods, still not sure of his voice. 

Jeff pushes away from the desk. Stands up. He takes a step towards Mike, hesitant. “Mike – ” 

He is still so stupid mad. But he also cannot stand how Jeff looks right now – unsure, and miserable, and _heartbroken._ Mike stretches a hand out towards him. 

And then one second he’s standing in front of Mike, and in the next he’s got his arms around him, twining around Mike’s neck and sliding down his back. The last of his anger just sort of breaks apart, and Mike gets an incredible jolt of _relief,_ because if he’s not Richie of Richie and Carts, then who the hell is he? 

It’s like a boulder lifting off his chest. 

Jeff pulls back a little, and his hands ghost over Mike’s face. “Can I – how’s your – ” he touches his thumb to Mike’s split lip. 

“Do it anyway,” Mike says. 

So Jeff kisses him, very carefully. Then he rests his forehead against Mike’s. He’s breathing hard. They both are. 

Jeff kisses his temple, his jaw. “I’m _sorry,_ ” he murmurs. 

Mike squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry I said… all the shitty things I said,” he tells Jeff. 

Jeff’s hands grip his shoulders, squeeze tight. His mouth is on Mike’s throat, his jaw again. Moving lightly over his busted lip, the bruised parts of his face. He kisses Mike’s _hands._ Even the gross parts, where his knuckles are still sort of fucked up. 

Jeff presses against him. His dick reminds him that it’s kinda _been awhile,_ and things rapidly slide from sweet to _hot_ and _desperate._

After, Jeff wraps himself round Mike tightly and sighs. He smiles into the nape of Mike’s neck. “I still can’t believe you missed my first goal.” 

Mike rolls his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, smiling. “They’ll be more.” 

 

 

 

 

Following practice, the Coach grabs Mike. “Front office wants to see you.” 

Mike raises his eyebrows but Coach just shrugs. So Mike troops out to admin section of the building, and gets directed back to the PR office. Great. 

He braces himself, but there’s no screech as he walks in. In fact, the only person in the room is a young woman sitting quietly on the couch. She has delicate features and soft waves of dark hair. She is undeniably beautiful, and she gives Mike a shy smile. 

Mike abruptly wishes he took the time to put on something other than track pants and a hoodie. “Hi,” he says awkwardly. 

She has blue eyes. And the corners sort of crinkle when she smiles. “Hi,” she answers him. “My name’s Julia. ” 

Mike’s response is cut off by Sarah blowing into the room. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she calls, hastily settling into a spot on the couch across from Julia. “Have you two gotten acquainted? Richie this is Julia Offred . Julia, of course you recognize Mike Richards, our budding young star?” She looks up at him and then gestures impatiently at the seat next to Julia. “Well? Sit down.” 

Mike is still blushing as he takes a seat. 

Sarah looks back and forth between them. “Oh, you two look _lovely_ together!” 

_Oh._

Julia smiles at him again, and then turns to Sarah. “I also have headshots of me as a blond and a redhead.” She passes a folder across to Sarah. 

Sarah flips it open and holds one up next to Mike’s face. He tries to turn his head to see it, but Sarah just frowns absently. “Hold still.” Her brow furrows. “Definitely not redhead.” Then she pulls back and looks at them both again. “I think I like you as a brunette for this. Plus it goes well with orange.” 

Julia nods like she guessed as much. 

“How does this… ” Mike tries to think about what he’s trying to ask and gives up mid-thought. “What exactly is going on?” 

Sarah smiles. “Oh, it’s really very simple. Super easy. We’ll get some publicity shots of you on dates. Seed some stories. Get an engagement announcement out… maybe midseason? And then we’ll probably have the wedding right after the end of the season – get a bit of ratings bump in what’s usually a low point for us. Shouldn’t take away from your playing schedule at all.” 

“But then we’ll be _married._ ” He looks between Sarah and Julia to make sure he’s getting this right. 

“Oh, yes, Richie,” Sarah answers him with wide eyes. “We’re in the publicity business. Not lying.” 

Mike swallows, “But what if…” 

Sarah frowns. “You’re going to have to marry _someone,_ Richie. Wouldn’t you rather do it sooner than later? And to such a pretty girl?” 

Mike turns to Julia in desperation, “But what if you hate me? You don’t even know me.” 

Julia’s eyes get a mischievous glint and her mouth curves, just a little. “You seem nice enough.” 

Mike blinks. He can feel his cheeks heating up. 

“You guys have a three day break coming up at the end of the month, yes? We’ll do it then. And Richie? Don’t be afraid to call Wardrobe if you need advice, okay?” 

Mike stands up, he’s clearly been dismissed. 

 

 

Sharpie thinks it’s _hilarious._ Jeff is less amused. Simmy just frowns. “I wish someone would conspire to get _me_ laid.” 

Sharpie snorts. “Simms – that would take more firepower than the Union has in its entire arsenal. I’ll take three.” Sharpie is _terrible_ at poker. 

Jeff is staring at Mike sourly over his cards. “I thought you said you weren’t going through with it.” 

Mike mulls his cards for a second before folding. “It wasn’t like I walked in there and they said, ‘How about this?’ It was more like, ‘Here this is happening, congratulations.’ And I still don’t – can they even _do_ that?” He turns to Sharpie, “Is this something they do?” 

Sharpie shrugs. “A bunch of the older guys are married. Primeau, Desjardins… but I don’t think the _PR department_ had anything to do with it.” He frowns, thoughtful, “You do get to live outside the ice center, though, so maybe it’d be a good thing? We could all hang out at Richie’s house and… what’s her name?” 

“Julia,” Mike grits out. 

“And _Julia_ could cook for us. Wait, can she cook? This is important, Richie. Tell her I like pot roast.” Sharpie laughs. 

Jeff glowers. “I don’t think it’s funny.” 

“Well of course you don’t – ” And then there’s a pause where even _Sharpie_ realizes he’s crossed some line. Mike looks away and the silence stretches out tight and awkward. 

Simmy clears his throat stiffly. “I’m just still pissed Eager got sent down before they got their hands on his hair.” 

Mike nods, grateful. “You heard from him lately?” Sometimes the players that move up and down a lot can bring messages back and forth. 

Simmy shrugs. “Naw. Busy, you know?” And yeah, Mike knows. They have a lot of hockey to play. 

 

 

 

 

Their game against the Blue & Gray is rough. Mike hits the bench and glances down the line, checking in. Mostly, the guys look good – the only thing catching his attention is the worried look on Radio’s face. It doesn’t make sense. Mike mentally goes through his list, checking in: Jeff’s been on a mini-scoring streak; he put _two_ in the back of the net in their last game. He’s finally starting to click with Sharpie, and Brashear has mostly stopped looking like he’s going to punch Jeff in the face at any second. Brash still refers to Jeff exclusively as _Niaiseux,_ but now there’s a note of fondness in his voice when he does it. Their top line is _on fire_ lately – thanks to them the Orange is up 2-0 headed into the second. D is solid, and as much as he’d love to see Niitty get a chance to play, their netminder is as well. Tonight’s game is totally going their way so far. So why the look? 

Radio plays wing with Savage to Primeau’s center, so Mike checks out Preems and Sav, but they both look fine. 

Then he hits the ice with Preems for a penalty kill, and maybe Primeau is just a little slower than he should be. Just a hair behind the play. Coming off the ice, Mike asks, “How you doing, Captain?” 

Primeau blinks at him for a second. “I’m doing fine, Rookie.” And Mike frowns, because he’s slurring a little bit. 

He can’t exactly demand an explanation in the middle of the game, so Mike waits until the second break and sits down next to Radio. “What’s going on with Preems?” 

Radio frowns. “Bad hit.” His accent is thick, but the words are clear enough. He taps his forehead. “Last game. Again this game.” 

And yeah, Mike remembers seeing him get checked into the boards early in the first, but he’d gotten right back up. “Then he shouldn’t play.” 

Radio shrugs eloquently. “Tell _him._ ” 

Primeau just says, “The trainers cleared me. I’m _fine,_ Rookie.” And Mike thinks the trainers must be fucking blind. 

 

 

Mike’s mostly given up worrying about hits on his teammates – if he hadn’t, watching Jeff play would have driven him _crazy_ ages ago. But it’s one thing to set aside some generalized anxiety, and quite another to watch someone out there who’s head is the equivalent of an overripe grape. 

Every time another player even comes close to Primeau, Mike tenses. Hitchcock is rolling lines, so they’re not out on the ice together much – but watching from the bench is somehow even harder. They’re in the closing minutes of the third, and Mike lets himself hope that it’s going to be fine. They have a couple days off after this. He’ll get some rest. He’ll be fine. 

And then Sutton sends Primeau into the boards, face first. 

Mike’s on his feet, with the rest of the bench, immediately. 

Primeau is not. 

He’s still. Perfectly, eerily still. 

 

 

That night, Sharpie crashes the impromptu gathering taking place in the Rookie Wing kitchen. He holds a bottle aloft. “Shall we drink to the memory of Preems, ducklings?” 

“Jesus, Sharpie,” Simmy says, “he’s not _dead._ ” 

Sharpie snorts. “Yeah, that’s what they said when they kicked me out of the vets’ party going on downstairs. But you better believe he’s not coming back.” 

Mike looks around. Umberger is blinking in surprise, and Picard who’s been called up for a couple of games looks sort of terrified. 

“Sharpie,” Mike says tightly, clamping a hand down on Sharpie’s shoulder, “let’s go for a walk.” 

Sharpie looks at him in surprise. Sharpie’s got a couple inches on him, but he doesn’t look like he’s at his steadiest. Anyway, he goes without a fight. 

“What the fuck?” Mike says when they reach the bank of windows at the end of the hallway. 

“What the fuck _what?_ ” Sharpie glares at him. 

Mike glares back. 

Sharpie makes a face of exaggerated revelation. “Oh! Was I scaring the children? Is that what you’re pissed about?” 

“Yeah, Sharpie, something like that.” 

Sharpie narrows his eyes. “Well, look at you going all paternal. Preems has been down for less than six hours, you already gunning for the C, Richie? Is that the plan?” 

“Fuck you, Sharpie,” Mike spits. “I just don’t think you need to be starting rumors that Primeau is done. The trainers said there’s a solid chance he’ll be back.” 

Sharpie just looks at him for a second, then he starts shaking his head. “I hate to break it to you _Richie,_ but you better _hope_ Primeau is done.” His voice gets low, mean. “That guy has taken _so many_ knocks to the head, and each time, they pick him up, dust him off, pronounce him fine and send him back out. As long as he stays upright, they don’t give a fuck.” 

He shoves at Mike’s chest. “Nobody here gives a fuck, not about you, not about me, not about anything but protecting their own ass. They worked players till they broke all last year, then they exploded the team – dumped them all, and they’ll do it again this year too, you just wait. Mark my words, Richie, this is a _sinking fucking ship,_ and I for one, am going to get the hell out of here, one way or the other.” He shoves the bottle at Mike’s chest. “You have a good time telling the ducklings their _bedtime stories,_ I’m done for tonight.” And Mike watches him stalk off down the hall. 

 

 

 

 

Mike is staring at himself in the mirror. He pats at his hair half-heartedly, wondering if he looks sufficiently lumberjack-meets-football-captain. 

Fuck, does anyone even _play_ football anymore? 

He can see Jeff in mirror, stretched out on the bed behind Mike and glaring like he could set the room on fire with the power of his disapproval. Mike sighs. “It’s not _real._ ” 

Jeff’s jaw clenches. “Thanks. That makes me feel _so_ much better.” 

Mike gives his reflection a last skeptical once-over and turns around. There’s got to be some way to get Jeff to see that this is fake. That it doesn’t mean anything. “Come meet her.” 

“ _What?_ No. That’s a terrible idea.” 

“Come on, I’m meeting her in front of Wachovia – you’re headed that way anyway.” Jeff’s going out with some of the guys tonight, because, in his words: _anything would be better than hanging around here waiting up on you._

As it turns out, Jeff doesn’t get much of a choice. They walk out of the building together, and Julia is already there, waiting. She’s bundled in a coat, and there are snowflakes catching in her hair. She walks up to them before Jeff has a chance to run away. She smiles up at Mike, “Hi.” 

“Julia. This is my friend, Jeff Carter.” He turns a little, so he can see what face Jeff is making. He looks mostly civil. 

Julia extends her hand. “Julia Offred. Nice to meet you, Jeff.” 

Julia’s hand looks tiny in Jeff’s. He holds onto it a beat too long. “That’s an interesting name.” 

Julia tips her head a little and smiles, then she takes her hand back. “Thank you.” She slips a hand into the crook of Mike’s arm and looks up at him. “Mike?” 

“See ya, Carts.” He smiles tightly at Jeff and starts walking up the street with Julia. 

“How do like Philadelphia?” She asks him as they’re walking. 

“It’s… nice.” The truth is, despite their adjusted PerT clearance, most of them have been acting like forest creatures at the edge of clearing, just barely pushing past the perimeter of familiar territory. The forays they make darting and uncertain, and each new store, each new restaurant treated as newly conquered territory. 

He realizes a beat too late that this is the part of the conversation where he’s supposed to ask her something back. “Have you… spent much time here?” 

She smiles down at the ground. “A bit. I travel a lot – New York, Philadelphia, Boston.” 

“We play the Yellow next week,” he says, because that’s all he’s got on Boston, and god, he is _so lame._

Julia looks up, an expression of polite interest on her face, and she’s clearly taking pity on him when she says, “Oh? Are they any good?” 

But whatever, he’ll take it. So Mike spends the last few minutes of their walk giving her a rundown of Patrice Bergeron’s finer points, and how they’re going to get past Tim Thomas. 

They pause outside the restaurant, so a guy who’s standing there with a camera and stamping his feet can snap their picture. “Sorry,” he says. Neither of them says anything in response. 

Inside, he takes her coat, and pulls her chair out, because he was actually raised properly, before he was shipped off to the AHL to live with wolves. “So,” he frowns. He’s pretty sure he’s supposed talk about something other than hockey, but his brain is having a hard time switching tracks. 

Julia holds up a finger: _wait._ Then she sets her handbag on the table between them and opens it. She gestures for him to look inside. There’s a small square of black plastic sitting on the top. While he watches, she slips her slim hand inside and flips a switch on the object’s side. A tiny red eye on the box’s side comes to life. Julia closes the handbag, but leaves it sitting on the table. 

“Just so you know,” she says, “you should assume they’re recording all of our conversations.” 

Mike blinks. “What is that?” 

Julia smiles. “That’s a bug jammer. It blocks local RF transmissions.” 

Mike feels like things have tipped sideways. Again. “Wait. What?” 

Julia shrugs lightly. “I prefer privacy.” She gestures vaguely at the photographer who’s taken up residence a few tables over. “Seeing eye notwithstanding.” 

“If they’re recording,” Mike says slowly, “won’t they notice the sudden… dead air?” 

She brightens. “I knew you were smarter than you looked.” She softens that by giving him a mischievous look. “Equipment malfunctions all the time. They won’t miss a few minutes.” 

He has to ask. “So, wait. Are you okay with all this?” He gestures between them, hoping that encompasses the fake/not-fake marriage/dating _thing._

“In my experience the first plan almost never goes through. Things change too fast. I’d put the odds of them actually wanting you to get married by the end of the season at fifty to one. But,” she adds, “it’s sweet of you to care.” 

And that’s – sort of a relief? Although who knows what they’ll come up with for Plan B. He points to the handbag. “So what is this about, then?” 

“You seem like a decent guy, Mike. A smart guy. There’s… a whole other world out there.” She taps a fingernail against the wood table top and narrows her eyes at him. “And we can always use more decent guys.” 

_“We?”_

Julia shakes her head abruptly. “I don’t have time to go into it here. Do you have a jailbroken phone?” 

Mike shakes his head, wondering if he should admit he doesn’t know what a jailbroken phone _is._

“Here.” Julia pulls a phone out of her bag and slips it towards him. “Take mine. I can always get another one. There’s an app on there that lets you send unmonitored text messages, it just works locally, but still. I’ll get in touch with you through that.” 

Mike hesitates. And then he palms the phone. Julia reaches for her handbag. “Wait.” Mike catches her hand. “How did you know you could trust me with this?” 

Julia smiles. “Good instincts. And then meeting Jeff, of course. If you’re friends with someone like Jeff – ” She trails off and shrugs. 

Mike frowns, but he lets her hand go and sits back. Julia flips the bug jammer off. They spend the rest of the evening talking about hockey. 

 

 

He knocks on Jeff’s door when he gets back, but there’s no answer. Mike heads to his room. He pulls the phone out of his pocket and stares at it for a long minute, then he stashes it in his bedside drawer. He strips down and stares at the dark ceiling. 

Jeff’s knock wakes him from a light sleep. “It’s open,” he calls. Jeff slips into the room, still in his coat and hat, and hits the lamp. Mike blinks. 

“How was it?” Jeff asks. 

“Weird,” Mike answers honestly. 

Jeff frowns. “Weird how?” 

Mike shakes his head. “Come to bed first.” 

Jeff’s mouth curls in a small smile and he starts striping off his clothes, leaving his coat and scarf in a pile on the floor, because that is the kind of guy he is. 

Jeff crawls into bed with him. They’re usually pretty good about going back to their own beds to sleep. Usually. Mike likes to make exceptions. 

Jeff runs his hands over Mike’s face, down his shoulders and arms, as though assuring himself that Mike’s been returned sound and in one piece. He finally settles facing Mike, one arm draped over his hip. Haltingly, Mike relates the conversation he had with Julia. Jeff’s jaw tightens, and his eyes narrow. “Mike. You shouldn’t… this is not something you should fuck around with.” His vehemence sets Mike back, a bit. 

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” Mike points out. 

“It _doesn’t matter,_ ” Jeff hisses. “It just matters if it _looks_ like you did something wrong.” 

Mike winces a little at the intensity of his tone. But – “What do you think she meant by _we?_ ” 

“I don’t know and I don’t think you should find out.” Jeff is staring at him, hard. “Seriously Mike. Don’t go out with her again. Don’t talk to her again.” 

“Yeah – how am I supposed to get out of doing that?” Mike asks. 

Jeff blows out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know. Figure something out. Just _don’t see her._ ” 

They lie next to each other in silence for a minute. 

“She gave me a phone,” Mike confesses finally. “An unmonitored one.” 

“For god’s sake, Mike – throw it away!” Jeff’s voice is too loud for the hour and Mike shoots him a hard look. “ _Get rid of it,_ ” Jeff repeats, quieter but no less intense. 

“Yeah,” Mike agrees absently, lost in thought. “Maybe.” 

 

 

 

 

It’s easy enough to channel all of his anxiety and confusion into aggression during play, especially when they roll out onto the ice in Pittsburgh to an epic chorus of boos. Mike stretches his stride out, pushing faster around the circle. The last time they played the Black & Gold they lost in OT to a goal scored by Pittsburgh’s new, young phenom – some kid they jumped up straight from juniors. Mike wants to smash his face in, just on _principle._

The rest of the team is just as edgy as he is. The locker room had had this weird, silent intensity, and now the practice shots are just _cracking_ off against Niitty. The echoes seem extra loud. Mike’s hands flex on his stick. He grinds his mouth guard between his teeth; he wants the game to start. 

They’re captain-less, a little disorganized, but when the puck drops, Forsberg’s line _dances_ around Pittsburgh’s D to draw first blood. And you’d think that after a certain point, scoring might lose some of its rush, but when Forsberg hits the bench, he’s got a vicious gleam in his eyes. 

Radio gets called for hooking, and Mike’s unit gets sent out for the PK. And he gets flat out-skated, out-stick handled, out- _everything_ by the Black  & Gold’s new kid. They convert, and the game’s tied. Fuck. 

“Fuck that guy,” Mike tells Jeff in the locker room after the first. Jeff keeps taping his stick, but his lip curls a bit. And since Jeff doesn’t let _anyone_ get to him on the ice, _ever,_ that’s like an all-out screaming fit for a normal person. 

Coach is up at the front of the room, yelling something about puck possession and taking advantage of mistakes. Mike’s pretty sure he’s heard it all before. He doesn’t need to be yelled at. He needs to be _on the ice._ Like, _right now._

“New plan,” he tells Zeus as they shuffle into the bench. “Score goals. Kill anyone that gets in the way. Especially 87.” 

Zeus raises an eyebrow at him, but shrugs philosophically. “Sounds good.” 

It _is_ good. Zeus feeds him the puck, and Mike gets it in from the slot. It’s not fancy, but it’s a goal. Then there’s a stretch of several _long_ minutes where possession flips back and forth too fast for anyone to score, but Pittsburgh eventually manages to snipe one in. Mike could kill Niitty. Or their D. Or anyone, and everyone in the building for that matter. Then the Black  & Gold gets another power play, and 87 seems pretty fucking convinced they’re going to score again. 

_Haha. No._

Mike’s brutal with his checking. Absolutely not caring if he burns through all his stick minutes in one period. He wrests the puck away from Pittsburgh through sheer force of will, mainly, and by some miracle, manages to get it to Gagne. Who scores. _3-2, us. Suck it, Pittsburgh._

But Pittsburgh answers, _again._ And the noise of the crowd is really not helping Mike’s anger management. 

They hit the locker room for the break before the third, and Mike must be making some kind of face, because Jeff knocks his shoulder. “You okay, Richie?” 

Mike growls. 

“Okay.” Jeff draws the word out. “Tell you what – I got this one.” 

Mike blinks and looks at him. 

“Just for this period, okay? You can go back an over-invested rageball next game.” 

Mike frowns. “I am _not –_ ” 

Jeff cuts him off. “Of course not. But I got this one. You just try not to get ejected for attempting to kill a seventeen year old kid.” 

And he _does_. Jeff puts one in with a glorious, glorious dangle around, like, three Black  & Gold players. And then later he gets called for _roughing_. Which. Mike’s not even sure which part he likes better. 

 

 

 

 

“Oh, _fuck._ ” Jeff has one hand twisted in the sheets; the other is clamped on Mike’s shoulder. “Fuck, don’t _stop._ ” Mike’s teasing him. He’s putting his mouth pretty much everywhere _except_ Jeff’s dick. And it’s pretty awesome, because Jeff is squirming, and thrusting his hips up at Mike’s face, like _that’s_ going to get him what he wants. He’s flushed red – his chest, his face, all of him. Mike grins and returns to teasing the spot where Jeff’s leg meets his body with his teeth. 

Jeff moans. “Mike, _come on._ What do you want? Goals?” 

Mike laughs and drags his stubble across the lower part of Jeff’s stomach. 

“Penalties? I’ll get called for _all_ the penalties. I’ll fucking _live_ in the box if you suck my dick.” 

He laughs again. He fucking loves it when Jeff promises absurd things for sex. And really, that sort of initiative should be rewarded, so he gets a hand around the base of Jeff’s dick, holds his hips still with the other. 

“Fuck. Yes,” Jeff says as Mike finally lets him fuck his mouth. And it’s not long before he’s coming down Mike’s throat – which is a trick they figured out last week. 

Jeff is still panting when there’s a knock on the door. They look at each other. They both usually keep their doors open – unless, well. A closed door is a tacit signal to, you know, _go away._

“Carts. It’s me.” It’s Sim. Frowning, Jeff rolls off the bed and pulls on a pair of shorts. Mike fucks off to the bathroom, because there’s really only so much he’s willing to shove in his teammates’ faces. 

He hears Jeff haul the door open. “Hey. What’s up?” 

There’s a pause before Simmy answers and Mike winces. “Um, listen,” Simmy starts, “Sharpie’s been traded, and he’s leaving, like, _now,_ if you want to say goodbye.” 

“What? Are you serious?” Jeff asks. 

“Yeah.” Simmy sounds bummed. “He’s in his room, packing.” 

“Okay. Let me just – put a shirt on.” 

“Sure.” Simmy says. “You’ll, uh, let Richie know?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” And Mike hears the door close. 

“Fuck, Mike.” 

Mike comes out, watches Jeff dig through the clothes on the floor looking for his shirt. He gives up and pulls a clean one out of the drawer. Then he slams the dresser drawer shut and just stands there for a second. “Jeff?” 

Jeff looks at him. He looks – really fucking sad. 

And, fuck. How is he going to fix _this?_

 

 

Jeff pauses in the doorway to Sharpie’s room. “Hey.” 

Sharpie looks up from where he’s throwing a seemingly random assortment of things into his bag. “Oh, _Ducks,_ ” he says, taking in Jeff’s face. “Don’t look so sad.” He points to the bed. “Sit.” And closes the door. He puts his arm around Jeff’s shoulders. “Seriously, Ducks. ‘Tis a far, far better place that I go to than… well, here.” 

“Where _are_ you going?” Jeff slumps against him. 

“The Red!” Sharpie’s got a smile on his face. If it seems a bit forced, Mike’s not about to call him on it. “Chicago. The Windy City. The Second City. The City by the Lake.” He pauses. “Am I missing any?” 

Jeff just shrugs, and Sharpie sighs. He looks up and his eyes lock with Mike’s for a second. Mike thinks he looks a little guilty. “You,” he says, pointing at Mike. He pats the spot on his other side. Mike pushes off the wall and comes to sit next to him. He swings his other arm around Mike’s shoulders and drags him in, so all three of their heads are pressed close. “Listen, there are worse things than being traded. Especially if it gets me away from the jackasses that are running the show here. Seriously – if you two didn’t have your… thing… going, I’d be telling you to get out too.” 

He shakes them both gently. “But you have to promise me you won’t trust them, okay? They’re full of shit and they don’t give a damn and they’ll fuck you if they can. You understand?” He looks back and forth between them, then gives them a harder shake. “Promise me.” 

“Okay, okay,” Jeff says. “I promise.” 

Mike nods. “Yeah.” 

Sharpie seems satisfied. “Okay then.” His grip relaxes. “Seriously, though. This is a good thing. The only thing I’m upset about is all they got for me is some shitfuck, no name winger.” He stands up and looks around his room. “What else? I’m leaving my porn stash to Jones and Niitty. You guys don’t mind, do you?” 

Jeff shakes his head. 

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Oh!” His eyes brighten. “It’s Ralph.” 

Mike shakes his head, confused. 

Sharpie rolls his eyes. “Works in concessions? Selling tickets?” And Mike is once again amazed that Sharpie really does know everyone. “Well, listen – he’s got like a liquor _emporium_ in his basement. Tell him I sent you, and don’t let him pawn the cheap stuff off on you.” 

There’s a knock on the door, Sharpie swings it open, and his escort is standing there. Sharpie gives them one last, brilliant smile. “Don’t worry guys – you haven’t seen the last of me. I’m going to do _amazing_ things in Chicago.” 

And then he’s gone. 

 

 

Jeff follows Mike back to his room, looking like someone’s abandoned dog. 

Mike rubs a hand across his back. “Sharpie wanted out of here. This is a good thing for him.” 

Jeff nods despondently. 

Mike sighs. Then his bedside table drawer buzzes. 

Jeff looks at him, and his face must give something away, because Jeff’s sadness melts into disbelief. “Mike. You _didn’t._ ” 

Mike flushes. He starts to get up, but Jeff plants a hand on his shoulder and pushes him back down. He’s shaking his head. He looks pissed. 

Mike shoots him a confused, angry look. “Don’t you want to _know?_ ” 

_“No.”_ Jeff’s fingers tighten painfully on his arm. “I really, really don’t.” 

Mike tries to shrug him off and they actually scuffle for a second – a brief struggle that ends with Mike twisting away to stand across the room, and both of them staring wild-eyed and breathing hard. 

Jeff holds up his hands. “Fine,” he says. “Do whatever you want.” And he leaves. 

Mike watches him go, listens to the door slam. And then he pulls the drawer open. 

_Party on saturday. come meet some people and have some fun. 2nd and market. call me when you get there - J_

 

 

 

 

Saturday they play the Navy & Gold, a game they lose in a shootout that leaves everyone edgy and sour. He and Jeff have been very deliberately not talking about the phone or Julia or any of it. Instead, anytime they’re alone together Jeff is _on_ him – his mouth and hands savage and unsparing, and Mike wonders if each time Jeff is thinking it’s going to be the last. Which doesn’t leave much time for talking. But Mike’s still standing outside Jeff’s door with his hand raised to knock. He still needs to tell him. Even if Jeff doesn’t want to hear it. 

Jeff swings his door open and eyeing Mike’s coat, his mouth twists unhappily. He lets Mike in silently. 

“I’m going out tonight,” Mike says. He pulls his cuffs. “With…” He trails off significantly. Hopes that conveys his point. 

Jeff grinds his jaw. “Okay,” he says. 

Mike shrugs. “I just wanted to… tell you, I guess.” 

“Okay,” Jeff says again, and grabs his coat. 

Mike’s eyebrows go up. 

Jeff spares him a brief glower, and then he’s wrapping his scarf around his neck, digging his gloves out of the pile of shit next to the bed. “I assume you have some plan for getting out after curfew?” 

Mike blinks, somewhere between shocked and relieved. “Yeah.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

 

 

The courtyard is technically part of the Wachovia complex – so there are no PerT-tracking doorways between here and the yard. Mike pauses to look out at it. This time of year it’s just a wide expanse of snow and brick. He tips his head to indicate Jeff should follow, and they both head out into the night. 

All the doorways that lead out from the courtyard to the street _are_ tracked, but the one at the south end is under construction. The doorway itself is still functional, but the wall on either side of it is just a plywood skeleton with tarp stretched over it. It’s as easy as lifting the tarp and stepping through to get out. Mike holds it up for Jeff to walk through. They both stand there for a second. 

It’s snowing. 

Jeff looks at him. “Which way?” 

Mike sets them off walking, snow crunching lightly underfoot. It’s not so late that the streets are deserted. Every time they pass other people Mike tenses, and he can feel Jeff doing the same next to him. But no one bothers them. No one pays them any attention. 

They end up in a rough section of town – the buildings growing smaller and more run down the further they walk. Jeff shoots him a questioning look. Mike shrugs. When they hit 2nd and Market, he pulls out the phone and texts Julia: _here._

After a minute, the door to one of the shuttered storefronts opens, just a crack. There’s a spill of light from the inside. Mike looks at Jeff. Jeff looks back at him. Mike swallows and leads them in. 

Julia is standing just inside the door, waiting for them. Mike almost doesn’t recognize her. Her hair is swept up, away from her face. She’s wearing makeup that gives her eyes a sharp, dramatic flair, and her dress – it’s tight, and black, and it ends mid-thigh, revealing a long stretch of leg. Mike looks away quickly, feeling an instinctive rush of guilt. She smiles. “Hello, Mike.” And her eyes widen, pleased, when Jeff follows him in. “Jeff. Welcome. Come on, this way.” 

She takes them through a doorway in the back, and down a narrow flight of stairs. She pauses at the base of the stairs. “You can leave your coats here.” As they round the corner, Mike becomes aware of an odd, rhythmic throb emanating from somewhere within the building. Up ahead there’s another set of doors, but these ones have a man sitting outside them. He’s clearly some sort of guard. “Hey Johnny,” she calls. 

“Jules.” He stands up and runs a wand up and down her person. Then he turns to Mike. “No electronics, phones, or weapons.” Mike digs his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. Johnny takes a box of the shelf and flips it open. There’s a pile of phones inside. “We operate on the honor system,” he says. 

Mike shrugs and drops it in. Johnny runs the wand over him, and then Jeff. “Alright,” he says, “you can go in.” 

“Thanks, Johnny.” Julia pats his arm, and pushes the doors open. 

The throb gets louder, and it’s _music,_ Mike realizes. Although weird and heavy, and deep in a way that vibrates through him, a strange buzz he can feel in his breastbone, in his _teeth._ And it’s dark – lit with odd orbs of red light, and neon tubes that curl around the ceiling and down the walls. They push forward, and as his eyes adjust, Mike sees clusters of people dancing, or just standing around and drinking. It feels impossibly foreign. Behind him, Jeff stops moving. Mike glances back and follows his gaze. There’s an elevated platform in the center of the room and on it – 

Mike blinks. 

On it there is a woman, naked save for a shimmery slip of underwear, twining herself around a pole. As they watch, she wraps a leg around the pole, and lets herself fall backwards, her body making a perfect, graceful arc. She holds it for a second, then slides downward in a slow revolution toward the floor. 

Julia makes it several steps out into the audience before she realizes she’s lost them. When she comes back, she laughs at the expression on their faces. “That’s Mya,” she says, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’ll introduce you later if you like.” 

Jeff gapes at her for a second. “How – ” He stops, shakes his head sharply. 

Julia laughs again, high and bright. “Come on, have a drink with me.” She tugs them forward toward the bar. 

“Put them on my tab,” she tells the bartender, and promptly gets pulled away to talk someone who throws their arms around her, screaming “Jules!” 

There is a seemingly infinite array of bottles behind the bartender, so Mike is sort of ridiculously grateful when Jeff just leans forward and says, _“Whiskey.”_ And all Mike has to do is nod. Jeff throws his first one back quickly. “Jesus,” he says, “at least we know how to do this part.” 

Mike laughs. “I don’t think we’re required to do the pole-climbing thing.” He pauses. “At least, I hope not.” But he’s already lost Jeff’s attention again. 

Jeff’s staring at a stage on the other side of the room, where, yeah – that’s definitely two guys fucking. And the guy getting fucked? He is definitely juggling fire. Like, literally. Where the fuck are they? Mike watches for a second, mesmerized by the flickering light and the slide of bodies, then he puts his mouth close to Jeff’s ear and murmurs, “I mean, the fire seems a little advanced, but I bet we could figure out how to do the rest of that.” 

Jeff tears his gaze away to look at Mike and his eyes are heavy and dark. He’s breathing shallowly, lips parted. And Mike abruptly wants to take him and go _home,_ like _right now._ Jeff swallows hard. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second. Mike watches him bite his lip. 

He opens his eyes and turns sharply to the bar. He slides his glass forward. “Another, please.” 

The whiskey in Mike’s stomach is a warmth spreading slowly outwards. Julia reappears at his elbow, and Mike says, very deliberately, “Julia. Where the fuck are we?” 

She laughs at him, _again._ “Follow me – we can talk where it’s quieter.” She takes them through the crowd and into a back hallway, and then into a tiny room. It just holds a bed, a desk, and a spare, straight-backed chair. And, um, _yeah,_ Mike can guess what this room gets used for. 

Julia hops up to sit on the desk, kicking her heels off and swinging her legs. She pushes the chair towards Jeff, who sits cautiously. Mike posts up against the wall. He raises his eyebrows at Julia. 

“This place is run by the Resistance,” she says, sipping her drink. “It’s a… source of income, mostly, but it’s also a place to meet likeminded people. Reassure yourself you’re not alone.” 

“The Resistance,” Jeff echoes flatly. “That’s not supposed to be a real thing.” 

“This place looks real to me.” She curls one loose piece of hair around her finger. “Doesn’t it look real to you?” 

Jeff sets his jaw. “How do we know we can trust you? And how do you know you can trust us? Or do you take everyone you meet back here?” 

Julia pouts. “Of course I don’t take _everyone_ I meet here. As for the rest of it, well it’s a calculated risk, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah? And walking around with a name like that – is that a calculated risk too?” 

_A name like what?_ Thinks Mike. 

Julia smiles, sly. She saunters over to Jeff. “A girl’s got to have a stage name, Jeff. And people have shorter memories than you’d think.” She walks a circuit around his chair. “Clearly you’re willing to take a calculated risk or two, or you wouldn’t be here. So there must be things you’d like to _resist._ ” She stops in front of him and nudges his knees apart so she can step between them. “Like these,” she says, hooking one finger in the chain of his PerT tags, “maybe you’d like to take these off?” 

Jeff freezes and Mike stops breathing. There are, like, all kinds of alarms that are supposed to go off if you take both your tags off at once. The chain _never_ comes off. 

She slides her finger back and forth, flipping the tags so they jingle. Giving him a small smile, she lets go, walks over to the desk, and comes back with what looks like some sort of homebrew battery, with alligator leads attached. She leans close to Jeff again. “See, what a lot of people don’t know, is that the information is coded in the tags, but the _tracker_ is in the _chain._ ” She reaches out with one of the alligator leads. 

Mike’s pulse is a dull roar in his ears. 

At the last second, Jeff’s hand darts out – catches her wrist. 

Julia gasps. Then she smiles and lowers her eyelashes. “All right, then. Me first.” Jeff lets her hand go, and Julia clips the leads to her own PerT chain, one on either side of the clasp. Then she flips a switch on the battery, and undoes the clasp on the chain. Her tags slide off. “Ta da,” she says, holding them up. “See? You just need to short them for just a second. Now, do you want yours off?” 

Some days, Mike feels like he doesn’t know Jeff at all – he doesn’t talk about his past, won’t talk about the future, and he’ll disappear inside his own head for minutes, or _days_ at a time. At the same time, Mike knows everything about Jeff, all the little things – when he wakes up in the morning, what he eats, how he likes his stick taped, how he likes his dick touched – but all the big things too, the things that make him tick, like the fact that he lives and breathes hockey to the exclusion of almost everything else. 

And that he has a vicious, fiery hatred of all things Union that he holds poisonous-close to his chest. 

Mike knows exactly what he’s going to say. 

“Yeah.” Jeff’s voice is low, throaty, almost indecipherably rough. “Take them off.” 

So she does. She stands behind him, clips the leads on, and in an instant, is sliding the tags off. Jeff swallows and takes a long breath. 

Then she reaches down, and drags her fingernails lightly from the skin exposed at the collar of his shirt, across the unbroken expanse of his throat, and up the side of his neck into his hair. She repeats the gesture, trailing back down the nape of his neck. Mike watches Jeff’s skin flush red under her caress. His eyes are closed. 

“There,” she says, “isn’t that better?” 

Jeff pants. 

She keeps one hand at his throat and walks around in front of him. She hikes her dress up so she can straddle his lap. Jeff’s hands come up to her waist automatically, and then she’s tipping his head back, sealing her mouth to his. 

Mike thinks he is maybe supposed to feel jealous, or betrayed, or something, but mostly he is like, unbearably hard. 

Jeff breaks away from her mouth with a harsh gasp. “Richie,” he says, flailing one arm in Mike’s general direction. _“Mike.”_

Mike stumbles forward. He comes to stand behind Jeff, catches his outstretched hand in his. Julia looks at their intertwined fingers. “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” 

“Yeah,” Jeff’s voice is still little more than a rumble, “it’s like that.” 

Julia brings her mouth back to Jeff’s and Mike uses his free hand to stroke along Jeff’s jaw, to brush the loose hair away from Julia’s face. She breaks away and rubs her face into the palm of Mike’s hand. She feels impossibly soft. Jeff moans. 

Mike can feel her smile against his palm. She sucks lightly at the pad of his thumb, and then slides slowly off Jeff’s lap. Grabbing hold of his belt loops, she tugs him forward. “Well, come on, then” she coaxes. Once upright, Jeff lists gently to one side, eyes looking glazed. Mike catches him, and Jeff hauls him in, kissing him roughly. Jeff steadies himself a little. “Is this – are you – ” His voice is an urgent whisper in Mike’s ear. 

“Jesus, yes,” he whispers back. His heart is pounding about million times too fast, and he feels like he can’t get quite enough oxygen, but hell yeah – _of course_ he is onboard with this. 

Julia turns her back to Mike, “Will you?” she asks, and Mike realizes she’s asking him to undo the zipper on the back of her dress. He does, and she steps out of it, letting it pool at her feet. “Now undress him,” she says. 

Mike does, helping Jeff get his shirt over his head, works his belt free while Jeff moans and sucks kisses into Mike’s throat. 

When Mike reaches for his boxers, Jeff catches his hands. “Oh, god, Mike – if you touch me – ” So Mike gives him a second to collect himself, and lets Jeff slide his own shorts down before pushing him back onto the bed. 

Julia comes back with a little foil packet. “Do you know what this is?” 

Mike shakes his head, out of the corner of his eye he can see Jeff doing the same. 

“It’s a rubber, a condom.” 

And Sharpie and Gratton used to make endless jokes about them, but Mike’s never actually _seen_ one before. 

“We manufacture them,” Julia continues. She trails finger down Jeff’s stomach, “And it’s what’s going to keep _you_ from leaving blond, blue-eyed babies all over South Philly.” She rolls it on, and between once breath and the next, sinks down, onto Jeff. 

Jeff grabs Mike’s wrist and squeezes, hard. Mike kisses his hand, then carefully breaks away, because he _needs_ to get pants open. He makes a spot for himself on the bed next to them, and watches Julia play with herself while she rocks back and forth on Jeff’s dick. Jeff is watching her. He lifts his hands, and they hesitate in midair for a long second before reaching up to cup her breasts. Julia hisses and rubs herself faster. She is watching Mike stroke himself. Her eyes are dark, hooded. 

And it’s – well, none of them last long. 

Julia comes first, arching and grinding down on Jeff, who groans – hips snapping, and that’s all Mike needs to get himself there. 

When he comes back to himself, he can hear both of them, breathing roughly. “Here,” Julia says, and she brings Jeff’s hand up to grip the base of the condom. “Hold here.” And then she slides off him, collapsing into the crook of his arm. 

Julia’s hair has come loose, and Jeff pushes a strand of it back, off her brow. She smiles at him. 

Mike presses himself close along Jeff’s other side. Jeff drags Mike’s arm across his chest, tangles their legs together. 

Julia stretches and strokes Mike’s arm where it’s resting across Jeff. She frowns absently. “You should leave, soon, if you want to be home before the street curfew kicks in.” 

Mike nods. He slips her hand into his and – what do you say here? _Thank you? See you on our next fake date?_

Julia just squeezes his hand and pushes herself upright. “Don’t forget to put your tags back on before you leave,” she tells Jeff. 

When his brow wrinkles in an expression of distaste, Julia brings a hand up to cup his face. “You can come back,” she says gently. She looks between the two of them. “Come back anytime, alright?” 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere around the turn of the year, they go from being a team that wins more than it loses to a team struggling to get wins at all. Forsberg goes down with a groin injury that just won’t heal. Knuble breaks his hand, and just like that, their top line is kaput. Coach Hitchcock starts shuffling the lines rapid fire, till Mike’s never quite sure who he’s going to be playing with any given night. 

_Confused_ starts to be the dominant expression on guys faces during games, and they start getting called for stupid shit, like _too many men on the ice,_ because there’s no hand on the wheel, they’re just spinning, rudderless. 

When that strategy doesn’t work – _fucking shocker,_ thinks Mike – management starts dealing guys. They lose Chouinard and Seidenberg to the Maroon. Meyer to the White  & Orange. Simmy to the Red & Navy. 

Simmy is a tough one. He shakes Mike’s hand, and Mike punches him in the shoulder lightly. And then Simmy says, “Oh, _fuck,_ man,” and grabs Mike and hugs him. 

Mike’s throat goes tight. “I’ll see you later this spring. We’re going to kick your ass.” 

Simmy laughs into his shoulder. “We’ll see, Richie, we’ll see.” 

Gratton, who’s spent more time down than up also goes to the Maroon – and what, are they running some kind of exchange program? 

Brashear goes to the Navy. 

And what’s worse is the guys coming in stick around for a dozen games – or a handful – or _fewer_ – before they’re shipped back out the door. It gets to the point where Mike doesn’t even want to learn their _names._

But the worst is Zeus. Zeus who shepherded Mike through his very first NHL shifts. Zeus, who is always smiling, who takes fucking _everything_ in stride. So, of course, Zeus takes the trade news better than Mike. “Richie,” he says, one enormous hand on Mike’s shoulder, “how can I tour entire NHL if I stay here so long?” He smiles. “I tell Sharpie hi for you,” he says, because he’s headed to the Red. 

“Tell Sharpie I said, _‘fuck you,’_ ” Mike jokes weakly. 

Zeus grins and claps him on the back again. “I tell.” 

He retreats, dull and hollow, with Jeff, back to his room. But somehow, in the space between the door clicking shut, and turning around to face Jeff, Mike is suddenly so _angry_ he shaking with it. He slams his hand against the desk, pulls back, balls his hand into a fist – 

“Ah.” Jeff catches his wrist. “You’ll fuck up your hand.” 

Mike sneers. He’s not angry _at_ Jeff, but he _could_ be. 

Jeff’s voice is quiet, even. “If you need to hit something, hit something soft.” 

And that just – Mike tugs free and presses his hands to his face instead, breathing in sharply through his nose. And it’s not that Zeus is gone. It’s not that Mike doesn’t even know who he’s playing with tomorrow. It’s not that Clarke, or _whoever,_ is fucking up Mike’s life. “He is fucking up _my team._ ” When he takes his hands away, Jeff is looking at him, a strange twist to his mouth. “ _Our_ team,” Mike corrects himself. 

“Mike, you have never been on a team that wasn’t _your_ team.” He tugs at Mike’s shoulders, trying to pull him towards the bed. Mike lets himself be guided, lets Jeff fold him against his side. 

Jeff pulls him tight against his shoulder and says, “What do you want? What can I do?” 

 

 

Mike closes his eyes. Instead of answering, he’s drifting in his head, thoughts unmoored. Fewer friendly faces around has meant fewer guys around to notice when they break curfew and sneak out. So they have been – slipping through holes in half-constructed walls, or hopping the wrought-iron gate that runs along the east side of the property, or climbing the snow plow left parked next to the wall and taking a wild leap into the snow bank on the other side. 

Mostly, they’ve been sneaking out to go to the club. 

And after that first night out, it was like some switch flipped in Jeff, like he’d held himself so tightly, worried so hard for so long that he just… couldn’t anymore. Like all the caution had been burned out of him, all at once. 

Jeff was sort of ridiculously ignorant of anything not having to do with hockey, but he’s been fearless about his ignorance, about presenting himself as a student to be taught. 

So they’ve learned how to dance – a trial and error process that left Julia _weeping_ with laughter on several occasions. They’ve learned how to fuck girls – where to hold them and how to touch them. And Jeff, in particular, has cut a _swath_ through the club regulars. Not that Mike has been slacking or anything, but he tends to get distracted by the _boys._ Anytime Jeff catches him looking at any one guy too long, he ends up making out with Mike, very publically, on the dance floor, mouth moving over him in a way that threatens to leave marks. 

They’ve figured out how to fuck each other, too. If Mike closes his eyes he can conjure up the feeling of Jeff holding him down, pressing into him. Or the way Jeff’s face looks, beneath him, open, like he would let Mike do _anything._

But some nights, when the winds not too bitter, they just wander around the deserted, overgrown trails that surround Meadow Lake. Those nights Mike can almost pretend they’re just out for a walk somewhere, totally of their own volition, movements free and unchecked. Sometimes they knock each other into snow banks, pelt each other with snow balls, like they’re kids again. Other times they just walk, the landscape lit up by nothing but the moonlight glancing off the snow, and Jeff will slip his hand into Mike’s, dart a smile at him, quiet and shy. 

When he does, Mike’s cheeks flush in a way that has nothing to do with the cold, and something twists up inside his chest, so sharp it _hurts._ Mike squeezes Jeff’s hand in his. _I would do absolutely anything,_ Mike thinks, _to keep you near me._

And all of it – the intensity of what’s rushing past under his eyelids, is a handy distraction for times like _now,_ when his _team_ is splitting apart – unraveling at the seams. If Mike can close his eyes, remember the crunch of snow underfoot, or the feel of Jeff’s hands on his hips, he can forget the unfamiliar faces behind the bench, forget the way the ice feels tilted now, and strange under his skates. Forget all of it. 

What he wants is to be distracted. He wants Jeff’s hands on him. So when Jeff says, _“What do you want? What can I do?”_ Mike pulls away from him a little bit, strips down, stretches out on his stomach, and waits. He buries his face in the pillow, listens to the sounds of Jeff getting up, wordlessly shedding his own clothing. 

But Jeff just rubs his hand up and down Mike’s back for what feels like a long time. And there’s something about it that makes Mike’s throat go tight, and fuck, if Jeff doesn’t start doing something more distracting Mike is going to _cry._

_“Jeff.”_ He’s shooting for irritated, but it comes out sounding plaintive. 

“Okay,” Jeff murmurs, his hand stilling. He nudges Mike’s thighs further apart, settling between them. 

Jeff’s hands are at his hips, and it’s the weight of him really, that’s the biggest comfort. Like Mike’s being held together. Held in place. 

 

 

 

 

“It’s coming from the front office,” Julia says, her eyes evasive in the dim light behind the bar. She’s covering for Andrew, who’s stepped out for a cigarette, but it’s early and slow, so mostly she’s talking with Mike, refilling his glass for free. 

Mike sighs and sinks a hand into his hair. He needs to slow down or he’s going to be worthless at practice tomorrow. “Wherever it’s coming from, it _sucks._ ” He swirls the liquid in his glass around. “We lost another two prospects this week – one to the White & Orange, one to the Blue & Gray, the poor kid. I don’t know who they think is going to _play_ next year at the rate they’re shipping guys.” 

“Well you, for one, love.” Julia pats his cheek fondly. 

Mike frowns and tips his glass back, because there it is again: the crawling, omnipresent fear that he or Jeff is _next._

“Oh, damn – I made it worse.” She strokes a hand along his arm, squeezes his shoulder. “ _Mike._ You and Jeff are playing beautifully – neither of you are going anywhere.” Even though there have been no more PR-scheduled dates set up – apparently a losing team is in less media demand – she’s come out for a few of their games. It’s a nice feeling, to have someone in the stands. 

And it’s true. Jeff’s play is on a steady upward trajectory, Mike’s not doing so bad himself, and as much as he tries to ignore it, he can’t help but hear talk of how they’re the Orange’s Next Big Thing. 

Maybe it’s stupid to worry about it. 

But the trades seem so heedless, so directionless. “Hitchcock is a fucking idiot,” he tells his empty glass. He takes its silence as agreement. “Clarke is a bigger fucking idiot. What makes you think it’s coming from the front office?” 

Julia _hmms,_ and pours herself a shot. And they don’t – they don’t really ever talk politics, here. Despite Jeff’s fears of conspiracy and revolution, the club really is just what Julia said it was – a place for likeminded souls to gather. She’s never asked him to declare allegiance, or deliver secret messages, or for cash, or _anything,_ really. And so he doesn’t ask her about how she knows _everyone_ here, or what she does on her frequent trips up to Boston and New York, or about the booze, or the contraband, or the boxes of condoms stockpiled in the hallway. But he does know that she knows things, or at the very least, that she’s in a position to hear things. 

She runs a hand through her hair and sets her chin in her hand. “It’s just a rumor, really. The political winds are shifting. Clarke’s floundering, looking for a way to keep his job.” 

And Mike _guesses_ a GM can be fired, but he’s never really thought about it before. “Huh.” 

There’s a laugh behind them, and the door to the back hallway opens. A woman with a cloud of curly hair comes out. She throws them a small smile and heads for the door. A minute later, Jeff emerges. He heads for the bar and sits down next to Mike, sliding an arm around his shoulders. Jeff’s more relaxed here now, than anywhere else these days. 

He smells like perfume. “Drowning your sorrows, Mike?” 

Mike raises an eyebrow. “Fucking away yours?” 

Jeff ducks his head, sheepish. He squeezes Mike’s shoulder. 

Julia pours a drink out for Jeff. “I didn’t recognize her. What’s her name?” 

Jeff’s face goes thoughtful for a second. “Um – Aneetha? Anita, maybe?” 

“Nicky! For shame!” She slaps his arm with the bar rag. She calls him _Nick,_ and he calls her _June,_ which Mike doesn’t really get, but then, he doesn’t think he’s supposed to. And Jeff – it’s like he’s still figuring out how he wants to treat women. Mike’s seen him run the gamut from tenderness to an almost callous disregard, like he’s trying all these responses on for size. But with Julia, he is always gentle, almost reverent. 

Jeff and Julia have a never ending stream of inside jokes, and they look at each other with an intense _fondness_ – like now, for example, when Jeff reaches out to take a light hold on her chin, stroke her cheek. He leans across the bar to kiss her. There’ a part of Mike that twists a little bit, watching that. A confusing pang of jealousy and fear. 

But then Julia squeezes Mike’s hand, and Jeff presses a kiss to his temple, and god, this place is the most stability they’ve got, these days. So, mostly, he feels lucky. He feels _loved._

 

 

 

 

Despite all the changes, there is still, always, hockey. They’ve traveled down south to play the Black & Blue, who they just _cannot_ beat this year. This is the last time they’ll play them during the regular season – and the Orange is in serious danger of not making the postseason – so maybe the last time they’ll play them this _year._ It would be really nice to win this one. 

They’ve got Forsberg back – although who knows for how long – his play still looks hesitant, cautious. But Mike will take a cautious Forsberg over none at all because he scores the first goal of the game. 

The Black & Blue answer fast, with a sick wraparound that leaves Niitty spitting and cursing at their D, and the D spitting and cursing back. 

Mike knows the feeling. He hits the ice for his shift, and no one is where he wants them to be. He takes the puck carrier into the boards, but the guy lights his stick up to force Mike to keep his distance, and passes the puck off to a Black & Blue defenseman who is just _totally, totally open._

What the _fuck._

Mike wants to scream at them. And at the break after the first, when they’re down _3 fucking 1,_ when it becomes clear that Coach Hitchcock is content to just feed them a couple platitudes about determination, he does scream at them. Mostly about how backchecking is _not optional._

And then one of the new guys says, “Jeez. Who died and made you captain?” And Mike just. There are no words. 

At least in the second they get their shit together enough to hold the Black & Blue to their two fucking goal lead. 

But in the third, the Black & Blue knocks one in to make it 4-1, and Mike is fucking desperate to find an upside. At least _Jeff_ is playing well, full of hustle and aggressive – no, strike that, _very_ aggressive. Apparently Mike has been too distracted by his own rage to notice but now that he’s watching, Jeff is clearly pissed – which makes sense to him, but Jeff appears to be pissed at one particular player. Mike looks, but he doesn’t recognize the guy’s name – Squire – or number, which probably means he’s just some random call-up, here for his cup of coffee. Mike can see from the bench that he’s chirping Jeff, but lots of guys chirp Jeff. Most of them get loftily ignored, or, at most, impatient eye rolls. _This_ guy is getting shoved. 

Jeff takes a faceoff against Squire’s line right near the Orange’s bench, and Mike can hear the chatter Squire’s keeping up. “You get back up to the B & Dubs for the summer, Carter? You get to see your mom? She get any time off for good behavior so she could see you?” 

Mike’s discovered that the NHL is basically stacked with gossipy fishwives who are all up in each other’s business. Which means that if you do something stupid, everybody’s going to know about it, and everybody’s going to chirp you about it. Losing a fight, missing an empty-netter, falling, these all get hashed out over and over again, like they’re glorious fucking gems of wit. 

So if a guy whips out something totally out of left field, it usually means he is making that shit up. 

Jeff does not react like Squire is making that shit up. Jeff fucking goes after him. 

It gets split up fast, possibly because the refs are _right there._ Or possibly because Jeff doesn’t know enough about fighting to be able to keep the other guy upright so he can keep hitting him, and Squire falls to the ice fast. Mike is still in a state of shock when Jeff is taken to the box for _charging,_ of all things, because apparently the refs can’t believe Jeff Carter would fight any more than Mike can. 

By the time Jeff comes out of the box, his normal steely exterior is back in place. He even scores a fucking goal. 

They still end up losing 6-3. Christ, what a shitty game. 

 

 

Jeff is moody and malcontent in the locker room, but then, so is everyone. Mike finishes dressing first. He taps Jeff’s shoulder on the way out the door, and then he ditches everyone and heads straight for their hotel room, because he’s not really in any mood to be civil. 

He’s halfway through some godawful movie, wishing he was home, where at least he could get _drunk,_ when he realizes it’s long past the time Jeff should have made it back to the room. 

There’s a tiny, selfish part of him that wants to drag the blankets over his head and say _not my problem._ But he can’t, obviously. It would be like trying to fall asleep with one of his _limbs_ missing. Instead, sighing, he flips the TV off and drags his pants back on. 

Jeff isn’t in the restaurant. He’s not in the lobby. Niitty hasn’t seen him. Neither has Umberger. Mike’s running out of options when Hatcher pokes his head out of his room. “You looking for Carter?” 

Mike nods, and Hatcher motions him inside. Mike frowns, because it’s not like Hatcher and Jeff are _friends,_ or even _friendly,_ really. But except for Hatcher’s roommate, the room is empty. Hatcher walks over to the window and points out. Jeff is sitting on a bench, in the hotel’s tiny pseudo-courtyard. “He’s been there awhile,” Hatcher says. 

Mike’s mouth twists. “Thanks.” 

Hatcher shrugs. Mike heads downstairs. 

He sits down next to Jeff. “Hey.” 

Jeff blinks, looking startled. “Hey.” 

Mike sighs. “You just hanging out here?” 

Jeff shrugs. “It’s nice.” 

Mike looks around. It’s kind of sad, actually – dying plants and gutters clogged with dead leaves, and it smells like what it is – which is a place to accommodate cigarette smokers. He looks pointedly at Jeff. 

“It’s warm, I mean.” Jeff holds up a hand, like he could indicate air temperature by pointing. 

It is. Mike’s in a t-shirt and he’s fine. “It’s about as far south as the NHL gets.” 

“The Red & Navy,” Jeff reminds him. “They’re south of here.” 

True. Mike nods. “I like playing them better than the fucking Black & Blue.” They beat the Red & Navy four times out of four this year. 

Jeff shakes his head. “That was a shitty, shitty game.” 

“Ugh.” Mike groans and slumps against the bench. “Tell me about it.” 

Jeff’s mouth curves but he doesn’t say anything. 

Mike lets the silence stretch out and then he says, “Do you, uh, know that guy? Squire?” 

The hint of a smile slips off Jeff’s face. “He played on my junior team.” A beat of silence. “He’s a jerk.” 

Mike nods, thoughtful. “What he said during the game… it really got to you?” 

Jeff just sits there, staring at nothing for so long that Mike’s given up on him answering. He startles when Jeff does speak. “Sometimes… ” Jeff starts and then he trails off again. “Sometimes, when I think about the past, it’s like it’s not a memory. It’s like I’m _there_ again. And I think, maybe I _am_ there. Maybe all this is just a dream. Do you ever think that?” 

Mike swallows, conscious of the fact that this courtyard is in full view of the rooms of probably half the team. “Jeff…” 

“No, I know. It’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid. Let’s just… do this inside?” 

Jeff blinks at him. He looks far away, but for once, he doesn’t argue. “Okay.” 

Inside, Jeff undresses with stiff, rote motions. He allows himself be tucked against Mike’s side. “Talk,” Mike says. 

And normally, this would be the part where Jeff stops answering him, or changes the subject, or pulls some other distraction technique. But instead, Jeff says, “My dad…” 

And it’s not what Mike expected, but he knows when to shut the hell up. 

Jeff continues, “My dad was a librarian, at the University. My mom was a professor there. She taught…” He shakes his head. “It’s all sort of fuzzy now. She taught English. Literature, you know? Books.” 

“The year they finally took everything over, they closed the university, emptied the libraries. My parents saved some of the books – their favorites, I guess. They hid them in the basement. I wasn’t supposed to know – but I did.” He looks at Mike, eyes wide and dark. “I’d take them out sometimes. Read little pieces of them.” 

“One night,” Jeff pauses, his head tilting in thought, “it must have been the fall because I remember I was worried about tryouts – for my atom team.” He smiles suddenly, and glances over at Mike, shy, “The Junior Knights.” 

Mike squeezes his shoulder more tightly. 

“Anyway.” Jeff’s mouth twists and his throat works. “One night, they – ” Jeff’s voice has started shaking, and there’s a tremendous feeling of _dread_ seeping into Mike’s bones. “The police – we still called them _police,_ back then, came. I wasn’t sleeping – I was worried, about tryouts. I remember they pointed a flood light at the house – the whole wall of my room lit up. They broke down the door.” Jeff swallows again, twice in rapid succession. “I remember my mom _screamed._ ” He’s trembling now, and Mike may be too, for all he knows. “They took my dad. And my mom. They left me for… it felt like forever, but it was still dark when they came back for me.” 

Jeff looks over at him suddenly, eyes a little wild. “I don’t really remember the next couple of days. But I remember they let my mom go, and she came and picked me up. My dad never came back.” 

Jeff’s hands twist nervously. “My mom was sentenced to work in one of the Correctional Factories. I lived with her there until I got sent away for hockey.” 

Mike bites his lip, “Is she – ” 

Jeff nods. “She’s still there. When I went home this summer, I stayed with her in the dorms. I used to think they’d let her go one day, but now, I don’t know. They can keep you there as long as they want, so, I just don’t know anymore.” 

Jeff breaks off. He’s got a hold of Mike’s wrist, and his hand is clamping down. “It’s _awful,_ Mike. I didn’t realize how bad it was till I went back. They didn’t bother to increase her rations for the first month I was there, so we shared. They’re making these weird chemicals, and _everyone_ is sick. Even the _guards_ are sick.” Jeff rubs the back of his hand across his face, roughly. “I used to think… I used to think I’d become a Free Agent, and then I could move back. Take care of her, at least, whether she was released or not – ” 

He breaks off, shaking his head. “But this summer she said she didn’t want me to come back. Not ever.” 

Jeff tucks his face into Mike’s shoulder. And it’s not until Mike tries to take a breath and fails that he realizes he’s crying, too. 

His voice is rough when he tells Jeff, “They could still let her out. When you’re a Free Agent, you’ll have more leverage – ” 

Jeff pulls back to look at him, incredulous. He bites out a harsh, choked laugh. “I’m not ever going to _be_ a Free Agent, Mike.” 

Mike stiffens. “What do you mean?” 

Jeff shakes his head. “My parents were arrested for _treason._ My mom is a fucking felon, my dad is… gone.” His tone is emphatic, bitter. “They’re _never_ going to grant me agency.” 

Mike’s free hand balls into a fist. “If you play, if you’re good enough – they’ll have to.” 

“They don’t have to do _shit._ Don’t you get it? It’s just a fucking carrot to dangle in front of us.” 

There’s something cold settling in Mike’s stomach, while his skin suddenly feels flushed, overheated. 

“Mike.” 

_“Mike,”_ Jeff’s tone has softened. “Fuck, Mike, I’m sorry. Look, _you_ have a good shot, okay? You’re good enough, you could make it.” 

Mike sets his jaw, and when he turns to look at Jeff, something in his face makes Jeff actually shrink back a little. “I _am_ going to make it. And so are you, got it?” 

“Sure. Okay.” Jeff still sounds uncertain, but whatever, Mike can believe enough for both of them. 

 

 

 

 

Mike hits the ice for practice and immediately notices something is different. Half the assistant coaching staff is missing, for one. He stops skating, drifts to a stop. There’s a certain tension in the air, but the rest of the guys are tumbling out onto the ice behind him, so Mike gets his ass back in gear, skates over the bench and dumps a few pucks onto the ice. Nobody’s shown up to take over practice, so he’s fucking with one, bouncing it off his stick when Jeff skates up to him, stops short with a spray of ice. “Check it out,” he says, nodding towards the entrance at the south end of the rink. 

Coach _Stevens_ – who coached them last year in the Phantoms – is standing there. 

“What the _fuck?_ ” Mike says. 

Jeff gives him a look, like, _how the hell should I know?_

Mike and Jeff drift back towards the other guys who are gathering, curious, near Coach Stevens. 

“Hello, gentlemen,” Coach Stevens greets them. He swallows. “As of today, I am replacing Coach Hitchcock as the head coach of the Orange.” 

There are more than a few raised eyebrows. 

Coach Stevens starts in on _focus_ and _drive_ and _turning their season around,_ which, Mike has heard about a million time before so he turns to Jeff. “Carts, this is, like, epically fucked up. Don’t you think someone should have _told_ us the head coach was getting fired?” 

Jeff rolls his eyes and shrugs. “I don’t know why you think they’d start telling us stuff _now._ It’s not like they ever did in the past.” 

“Eh, point,” Mike agrees. “But still, if they were going to fire Hitchcock they should have done it months – ” 

“Mr. Richards!” Coach Stevens suddenly shouts. “Am I interrupting something important?” 

Mike freezes, mouth still open. Stevens looks pissed. Then Mike looks around at his broken, _interrupted_ team in the middle of their shitty, _interrupted_ season. “Well, yeah, sort of,” Mike says. 

Coach Stevens’ expression darkens exponentially. “Get on the line, Richards.” 

Mike blinks. _“What?”_ He’d sort of gotten used to mouthing off in front of Hitchcock, who never seemed to give a fuck about anything. 

“Get. On. The. Line.” 

Mike gapes for a second, but Jeff shoots him a warning look. Mike rolls his eyes and pushes off for the red line. 

Someone snickers. 

Stevens sets his jaw. “You know what? Everybody on the fucking line.” 

And _holy fuck,_ Mike can’t _remember_ the last time Hitchcock put them through a bag skate. 

He skates them till Mike’s legs feel like jelly, and some of the guys are starting to miss their stops before calling them in. “Some of you have played for me before.” He makes eye contact with Mike, Jeff, and Ruzicka, among others. “So I know at least some of you _used_ to know how to play hockey. But I also watched your last game, and it seems to me that maybe you’ve _forgotten._ ” 

He looks at them with flinty eyes. “Well, as of right now you have a new head coach. A new GM – ” 

Mike blinks in surprise. It’s true then: the coaches and the GMs are just as disposable as the rest of them. 

“ – and this team is going to start playing _hockey_ again, got it?” 

A couple of the guys flick their gazes over to Mike, covertly. Mike grinds his jaw for a second. _Right now,_ he thinks, _is the moment when we either throw our weight behind this guy, or we don’t._ And Stevens may not be the best guy in the world – he let shit go down at the Phantom’s compound that Mike was none too pleased with, and of course, at one point he threatened Jeff’s place on the team for the great sin of _having friends_ – and don’t think Mike wasn’t pissed when he finally got _that_ conversation out of Jeff – but Stevens’ not the worst, either. 

“Yes, sir,” he answers, loud, like he’s certain of it, and the guys echo him. 

Stevens is looking at him, and Mike meets his Coach’s gaze steadily. _Okay,_ he thinks at him, _show me what you’ve got._

It’s not a miracle. They’re still not _good._ But they do sneak into a playoff berth. 

 

 

 

 

It’s a rainy, spring afternoon in the break before the postseason when Mike gets summoned to the front office. The weather’s been shitty for weeks, and they’re all going a little stir crazy – prank wars escalating, furniture pushed aside for impromptu, made-up sports – so he’s almost glad of the distraction. He assumes it’s something to do with PR, something to do with Julia. 

“No, no,” the admin secretary shakes her head. “I just needed to let you know your Communication Petition has been approved.” 

And, honestly, Mike hasn’t thought about his petition in _months._ Not since he sent it off and never heard anything back. 

“I just need your signature here,” she says. “See this? You can call every 60 days. We have a booth in the office you can use. Would you like to call now?” 

_“Now?”_ He’s suddenly uncertain. 

She shrugs. “Why not? It doesn’t count unless they pick up.” 

So he calls. 

 

 

“Mike,” his mom says. _His mom._ And now he understands why they make these booths opaque. He leans his head into the wall, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries not to lose it completely. _“Mom.”_

“Are you – is everything alright?” 

“Yeah,” he manages to get out. “I just – got permission to call you.” 

She sighs in relief. “We’re so proud of you, Mike. You’re doing so well.” And he can _hear_ her smiling. And maybe she can tell that he’s going to _lose it_ if she keeps talking about emotional stuff, or maybe she just knows that what he really wants is to hear her voice, to hear _home,_ because there’s a pause, and then she says, “Let me tell you what I’m thinking of putting in the garden this year.” She tells him about the sprouts she’s got going indoors, the seeds she’s saved from last year, a low, soothing patter. Then she puts his dad on. 

His dad talks to him about the lake, and fishing, and the trees that came down over the winter, until Mike has mostly got his shit together, can mostly breathe again. “We read the interview you gave, in the paper. You sound like you’re enjoying yourself,” his dad says. 

“What – ” _What interview?_ Mike almost says, but he catches himself. Because, _of course,_ and he’s not going to rock the boat. “I’ve met some really great people here.” 

“I’m proud of you, son.” Mike’s throat closes again. There’s a beeping on the line, the signal they’ve run out of time. 

“I’ll see you guys this summer,” Mike says. And then they’re gone. 

 

 

The objective is to get out of the office unnoticed, so he doesn’t have to talk to anyone while everything about him still feels raw at the edges. He makes it out of the booth, out of the office, and is almost clear of the hallway, when someone says, “Mike Richards.” Mike turns around. 

A tall man with gray hair buzzed short, has popped around the corner at exactly the right moment to catch him. Mike only vaguely recognizes him. “Mike Richards,” the man says again. He doesn’t say Mike’s name like Coach; he says his name like he’s genuinely _pleased_ to see Mike. “Paul,” he says, extending his hand, “Paul Holmgren.” 

Mike shakes his hand, searches his face for clues as to who he is and what he’s doing in the Orange front office. 

“I just took over as GM.” 

_Oh._

_Shit._

And yeah – the memories slot into place, of seeing this guy with Clarke, Clarke’s taller, leaner shadow. Holmgren smiles. “Do you have a minute? There are some things I’d love to talk to you about.” 

Mike fights off a fear-induced state of paralysis and follows him. Holmgren’s office is appropriately large, appropriately nice. Mike shifts in his chair, uneasy. 

Holmgren folds his hands on his desk. “You’ve played very well for the club this year.” 

“Thank you,” he answers, cautious, but flattered. 

“And this hasn’t been an easy year for us. A re-building year.” He pauses and looks at Mike, serious. “But we’re going to build a great team here, again. To do that we’re going to need to build some leaders.” 

_And this,_ Mike thinks, _is the part where he tells me I’ve been traded._

“I think you could be one of those leaders.” 

Mike’s head snaps up. “ _Here,_ you mean?” 

“Yes, of course.” He looks earnestly at Mike, blue eyes guileless. “I think you have a lot to offer the Orange, Mike – you’re a good player and a natural leader. Obviously you’re young now, but I think you could develop into a key player for this team. A leader for this team.” 

Mike leaves the office smiling. 

 

 

 

 

Natural leader or no, they still washout of the playoffs in the first round, getting soundly and decisively schooled by the Navy & Gold. So that sucks. 

What also sucks is watching Jeff’s face while Mike packs his shit for the summer. He finally has to stop and just drop his stuff in a heap. “Just come back with me to Kenora.” 

Jeff chews his lip, shifting his position on Mike’s bed. “You _know_ I could never get clearance for that.” He flicks his PerT tags. 

Mike frowns. He does know that. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation, but he still doesn’t have to like it. “What _are_ you going to do this summer?” Up to this point, Jeff has been sort of vague and evasive about his plans. Mike just knows they involve avoiding London if at all possible. 

Jeff hesitates. “I got permission to stay. Here.” 

Mike blinks. “Really?” He wonders for a split second if he could get permission to stay, too, and then he gets hit with a crushing wave that is equal parts homesickness and guilt. 

“Mike – no.” Jeff gets up. He takes the shirt Mike’s holding out of his hands and tosses it into the bag. “Go _home._ See your family. They must miss you; I know you miss them.” 

“But you – ” 

“I’ll be _fine._ ” He gives Mike a serious face that’s sort of spoiled by a dopey grin. “I’m going to drink all your booze, fuck your fiancé, maybe I’ll even jerk off in your bed.” 

Mike snorts. “Well good, at least Julia can keep an eye on you while I’m gone.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes. “I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me.” 

Mike raises one, incredulous eyebrow. “That is by far the least true thing I’ve ever heard you say.” 

Jeff punches him, but he’s smiling. 

“Also, it’s not going to be my bed anymore, so I’m feeling pretty bad for the next guy,” Mike adds, since they’ll be moving out of the rookie wing. “Oh, hey, that reminds me – ” Mike digs at the baseboard to open up his stash spot. He pulls out the playing card and the cash card, the phone from Julia. Then he hesitates, blushes a little before holding them out to Jeff. “Will you hold these for me? It’s probably safer than traveling with them.” 

Jeff is staring down at the playing card, which is great because it saves Mike the embarrassment of having to meet his eyes. 

“You _kept_ this?” Jeff says finally. 

Mike shrugs; he can feel his face heating up. “I guess. I mean, you can throw it out if you don’t want to hold onto it.” 

When Jeff does finally look up, his mouth is twitching. He stares at Mike for a long minute. “Huh,” he says, like he’s discovered something entirely new. 

 

 

 

 

Home, the lake, the summer is like a dream; something that lasts forever and is still over before he’s ready. 

 

 

 

 

Mike doesn’t have to be back in the Orange until the second week of training camp – development camp has already happened, and the shiny-brand-new rookies have been given a chance to settle in. Even then he’s still a day later than he’s supposed to be, thanks to a fuel shortage in the greater Blue & White. And so he’d tossed his shit in the general vicinity of players’ quarters – he doesn’t even know which room is his yet – and booked it over to the hotel, because odds are that’s where his guys are. He’s missed his guys. 

He spots Jeff in the exact same café Mike ate in with Sharpie last year, at almost the same table even. Jeff is sitting with two kids that Mike assumes must be new rookies. They look impossibly young. Jeff’s got one arm sprawled over the empty seat next to him. He’s smiling. He looks better than he did this time last year. He looks happy. 

“You’re Mike Richards.” Mike glances up; there’s a round-faced kid talking to him. Mike knows he can’t be _that_ much older than this kid, but he looks _so young._

Mike blinks. “I am.” 

“Oh, man.” The kid’s eyes widen. “I played for the Phantoms last year? And you are, like, a _legend,_ down there. I’m Downie.” 

Mike gets a rush of guilt because he hasn’t even thought of the Wachovia North complex, or his time with the Phantoms in _forever._ He makes himself smile and sticks out his hand. “Call me Richie. How’d Dev Camp go?” 

“ _Awesome,_ ” the kid replies, and he’s off and running, apparently set on giving Mike the play by play of the entire camp. 

At some point, Mike looks up, and Jeff is propped in the doorway just behind Downie, arms folded loosely across his chest. Mike makes eye contact with him and Jeff grins. 

And, yeah, he missed everyone, but he _really_ fucking missed Jeff. He smiles back; he can’t help it. 

Downie keeps talking. 

It’s _Eager_ who saves him. “Downie,” he calls out, striding over, “lay off Richie for second, eh? Let’s go raid Potulny’s minifridge.” He scoops up Downie with an arm around his broad shoulders and winks at Mike. “We’ll catch up later, right?” 

Mike nods. “Absolutely.” 

Jeff pushes away from the doorframe, and they give each other appropriately manly, back-slapping hugs. 

“You been to Wachovia yet?” Jeff asks. 

“Just long enough to drop my shit in the hallway. You know where I’m rooming?” 

“Oh. Yeah.” He grins. “You’ll like this.” 

 

 

“See?” Jeff says, swinging open the door. The door to the hallway opens to a small anteroom, which then has two further doors that lead to individual rooms. 

“Genius, Jeff. How’d you swing this?” 

Jeff shrugs. “Weirdly, there’s not a lot of demand for suites.” 

“Huh.” 

“Yeah. And – ,” he shoves the door hard enough to shut it, “ –now there are _two_ doors between us and the hallway.” 

“Gosh, would you look at that?” Mike goes for a serious face, but he can feel the edges of a smile slipping out. 

Jeff backs him against the closed door and braces a hand on either side of his head. He leans in close. “I fucking missed you, Mike Richards.” 

“Of course you did. Didn’t you hear? I’m a legend – ” is all he gets out before Jeff’s kissing him. 

 

 

 

 

It rapidly becomes clear what sort of team Stevens is trying build once Mike meets the new guys, and skates with them. He meets Cote and Hartnell. Boulerice and Downie, of course. And they’re all big guys. Tough guys. “Jesus. Are we building a hockey team or a boxing club?” he asks Jeff. 

They get skill guys, too – Lupul from the Blue & Orange, Briere from the Navy & Gold. And after a few practices Mike thinks he has a pretty good idea of how the roster is going to shake out. He’s starting to put lines together in his head. 

“’Berger – practice taking shots from the left today.” Mike tells him at practice. Umberger gives him a questioning look, but Mike just raises his eyebrows imperiously. ‘Berger would do well to listen – the way the team’s shaping up, they’re going to end up with more open spots on wing than center. 

And if one of the new assistant coaches gives him a _look,_ well, fuck him – he’s only been here two weeks, Mike’s played with some of these guys for _years._

Coach complies nicely, albeit unknowingly, with his plans. Umberger gets bumped up to play on Mike’s left, and Coach gives him one of the new guys, Lupul, to play on his right. Loops is coming from the Blue & Orange, and he didn’t do shit for them last year, but he’s got nice hands and good wheels, so Mike’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. Also, he’s pretty, and ever since Sharpie left, the team’s been sort of short on that. 

They also get Smith from the Blue & Orange, and he’s promptly named captain. He was the captain of the Blue & Orange, and he’s the big, physical sort of player Coach seems to want to model his team on, so Mike guesses that’s _fine._ Really. 

He’s sort of shocked to find out they moved Forsberg over the summer. But then again, maybe he’s not. 

Just before their first game, Mike gets called in to see Coach Stevens. He braces himself; their relationship is still _prickly,_ at best. 

Coach is frowning absently when he comes in. “Sit,” he says. 

When Mike does, he pins Mike with his steady, intense gaze. “I don’t much care for you, Richards. And there are things about you I actively dislike. But you’re a good player, and a good leader. Which is why I’m naming you Alternate.” 

Mike blinks. This is not how this type of conversation usually goes, but he recovers. “Just like old times, hey?” 

“Don’t get cocky, Richards.” 

Mike raises his eyebrows, all innocence. “Never, sir.” 

Coach’s mouth sets into a line. “I know you’re smart. But I don’t think you’re nearly as smart as _you_ think you are. You’re still just a kid, son. And there’s a hell of a lot more to this game and this team than you can see from your spot down in the trenches.” 

“Yeah?” Mike asks, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “More than Hitchcock could see? Or Clarke?” 

Coach raises one skeptical eyebrow. “Do you have some sort of compulsive need to piss off people that are trying help you, Richards? I’m trying to look out for you, here.” 

Mike bristles. He’s quiet for a moment, but he can’t quite make himself bite his tongue. “Like you looked out for Carter, sir? For Rovy?” 

There’s silence from the other side of the desk. When Mike dares to look up, Stevens’ gaze is cold, his expression flat. “One day, Richards, you’re going to learn that we’re all just doing the best we can in the positions we find ourselves.” 

And then he kicks Mike out of his office. Mike still gets his ‘A’. 

 

 

 

 

They start on the road, and after a quick jaunt across the Blue & Blank, he’s beating Jeff 5-2 in points. “Yeah, but we’re 2-2 for goals,” Jeff reminds him in the locker room before their first home game. Mike snorts – for Jeff, there’s putting the puck in the net, and then there’s everything else. With everything else finishing a distant second in importance. 

“3 - 2,” Jeff tells him after he scores off the power play to start the second. 

_“5 - 3!”_ Mike calls after him. 

The game is a solid win. And sure, beating the White & Orange is a bit like taking candy from a baby, but it’s still a _win._ “We should go out,” Mike tells Jeff. 

Jeff grins, wide. “Sure.” 

And Loops, because he has nose for these sorts of things, drops down on the bench between them. “Beauty goal, Carts.” 

Jeff tips his head. “Thanks, man.” 

“So, uh, you guys going out to celebrate?” Loops looks pointedly, first at Jeff, then he turns and studies Mike. “Because you look like guys who know where to have fun in this town. And I could use a local guide.” He’s got a half-smirking, half-hopeful expression. 

Loops had been bored and restless cooped up in hotels in their trek across the Blue – but he’s been doing an awesome job on the ice, and he seems like a solid guy, so Mike leans forward to raise an eyebrow at Jeff. _Should we?_

Jeff shrugs. _Sure, why not?_

“Sure. Alright,” Mike agrees. “Meet in my room in an hour.” 

 

 

Somehow, in the space of an hour, Loops turns into Eager and Loops, and then Eager and Loops _and_ Upshall, who came in as part of the Forsberg deal from the Gold  & White, and who Mike hardly even _knows,_ but Eager swears is cool. And that is where Jeff draws the line. 

_“Mike,”_ he says, making a serious face. 

And Mike has to admit he’s got a point. “Okay, seriously, guys,” he scolds, “keep your fucking mouths shut. This is not a team-sponsored outing, all right?” 

Loops widens his eyes dramatically. “Of course, not.” Eager shakes his head, looking innocent. But then, he always looks innocent. Except when he’s beating the shit out of someone. Upshall just shrugs. 

Mike sighs and glances over at Jeff. Jeff is busy texting into the phone he acquired over the off season. “Are you – ” 

“Yeah,” Jeff answers him. 

_Good._ Mike thinks. Because someone should know they’re bringing the party. 

 

 

The south entrance isn’t under construction anymore, but the east side fence is still just as easy to get over. 

 

 

Mike gets second thoughts just before they head inside. He turns to the group and frowns. “Just don’t – Just be cool, okay?” 

Loops looks skyward then back down at him, irritated. “Jesus, Richie, _okay._ ” 

So they go in. 

“Oh my god,” Eager says, when he sees the bar. “Oh my _god._ ” Mike glances over, because Eager’s clearly spotted the stage. Mya’s not performing, but her _sister_ is, and Mike’s a bit relieved, because he really doesn’t know what Eager would make of George and Phillip’s act. 

Eager grabs his shoulder and shakes it. “You knew about this place _the whole time?_ And you never _told me?_ ” 

“Well,” Mike hedges, “not the _whole_ time.” 

_“Mike!”_ he hears, and then Julia is _throwing_ herself into his arms. He spins her around once before setting her down. 

She laughs the whole time. “Nicky said you were coming back soon and – oh – I _missed_ you.” She takes his face in her hands. “I caught your game against the Blue  & Green. You played _wonderfully._ ” Then she kisses him. 

Behind him, Loops clears his throat pointedly. Julia swipes her thumb across Mike’s lips and then spins around to face his teammates, her skirt flaring. “You _all_ played wonderfully.” 

Mike slips an arm around her shoulders. “Guys, this is Julia. She’s – well, technically, I guess she’s still my fiancé.” 

Loops’ eyebrows go up. “Jeez, Richie, way to punch above your weight class.” 

“Oh,” Julia dismisses Loops’ comments with a wave. “I saw _your_ assist.” She takes his hand briefly, then lets go and turns to Eager. “And I saw when _you_ knocked over that man who had clearly said something rude.” And finally, to Upshall, “But you I don’t recognize.” 

And it’s true, Upshall was still nursing his broken finger for that game. 

Upshall blushes and introduces himself. 

“And I saw _your_ goal,” she tells Jeff. 

Jeff looks quietly pleased. He pulls her against his side briefly and kisses the top of her head. 

“Let’s celebrate!” She clasps her hands together under her chin. “Drinks are on me.” 

And since Julia seems to have all the bartenders wrapped around her finger, they get very drunk, very quickly. Eager brings another round over to the booth Mike’s parked at, then he more or less falls into the seat across from Mike. Mike picks his glass up with exaggerated care, and Eager just as carefully toasts him. Loops disappeared minutes – _hours?_ – ago with willing female companionship; Upshall is on the dance floor doing something stupid. Mike squints and closes one eye. Nope, he still looks stupid. Jeff and Julia are… somewhere. 

“Uh, Richie?” Eager is frowning, looking over Mike’s shoulder. Mike twists to see what he’s looking at. And, _ah, there they are._

“Richie is that… okay?” Eager is still frowning, although Mike can’t fathom why. 

He looks again. Jeff is sitting on one of the barstools, swiveled to watch the dancers. Julia is in his lap, one arm reaching up and behind her to stroke the back of his neck. While they’re watching, Jeff whispers something into her ear, kisses the side of her neck. Julia ducks her head and giggles. 

It takes him a second, but then, _oh, right. That probably looks bad._

He turns back to Eager. “Um. It’s complicated? But it’s fine.” 

Eager still looks skeptical. 

“Really. It’s – ” he searches for the least incriminating way to explain it. Because him and Jeff – they’re sort of the definition of an _open secret,_ but that doesn’t mean Eager’s going to want to _hear_ about it. 

Eager takes pity on him, waving off his explanations with a gesture. “Whatever it is, it’s fine, okay? As long as you’re fine with it.” 

Drunk, it takes Mike a second to parse that sentence. “Yeah, we’re, me and Carts, we’re – we’re good. And Julia, we’re all – good.” Mostly, anyway. He’s pretty sure. 

“Good.” Eager echoes and knocks back his beer. 

Later that evening, Julia appears at his side. She takes his hand. “Come dance with me.” 

Once on the dance floor, she presses herself close to him, looping her arms around his neck and swaying to a slow beat that completely disregards the music playing. “How was your summer?” she asks him. 

“Too short.” He tightens his arms around her. “And too long, too. Yours?” 

She hums into his chest. “Busy. There’s a lot happening, these days.” 

He doesn’t press for details. “Not too busy to keep an eye on Jeff, I hope?” 

She smiles up at him. “Of course not.” Then her expression turns bittersweet. “He missed you, Mike. I mean, I missed you too, but Nicky – he _missed_ you.” 

“He had you.” 

“It’s not the same.” 

Mike looks across the room, searching for Jeff. He finds him seated with guys. He looks happy enough. He meets Mike’s gaze and smiles. 

Julia is still talking; he shifts his attention back to her. “ – leans on you. He’s not like that with me,” she finishes. 

“He loves you,” Mike tells her. It’s easier to say than he thought it would be. 

“But he _needs_ you.” Julia’s eyes are dark, serious. And then, “So, _please_ be careful.” 

And Mike’s left wondering what exactly she meant by that. 

 

 

 

 

That night is the beginning of an era, in which they play brutal, high-scoring hockey, win a shit ton of games, and party like motherfuckers at night. 

He’s just finished telling his parents about their latest win, and is on his way out of the office, when Holmgren appears again. His timing is like magic. 

“Mike!” he says. “You have a second?” Like _Mike’s_ the important one. 

In his office, Holmgren ushers him into a seat. “Coffee? Water?” 

“No, thanks.” His solicitude is making Mike wary. 

“I’ll cut right to the chase, Mike – I want to offer you a contract extension.” He slides a document across the desk to Mike. “It’s twelve years, a generous compensation package, standard Cup and morality clauses, no movement clause, and,” Holmgren pauses significantly, “guaranteed Free Agency at termination.” 

Mike’s hand freezes above the stack of papers. He meets Holmgren’s eyes. They’re a startling, clear blue. 

Mike sits back. He swallows. He’s sort of terrified and ecstatic, and desperate to keep it out of his voice. “Twelve years? Why would I sign a contract for twelve years when I could be done in nine?” 

Holmgren continues to regard him seriously. “Your nine year, entry-level contract just makes you _eligible_ for Free Agency. This is a guarantee. You _will_ be a Free Agent after twelve, if you sign this.” His voice takes on a confiding tone. “I’d hate for politics or some _bullshit_ to get in the way of you getting your agency, Mike. This way we can guarantee that won’t happen. And of course, the four cups clause still stands.” 

Mike clasps his hands together tightly, mostly to make sure they aren’t visibly shaking. “No movement?” 

“That’s right. We want you playing for the Orange. You’re doing good things here.” 

Mike swallows again. It’s pretty much everything he’s ever wanted. Except – 

Holmgren seems to pick up on his hesitation. “Was there something else you wanted, Mike?” 

He’s not going to get a better opening than that. He flips through the stack of papers, letting them flutter against each other. He takes a deep breath. “I want the same contract for Jeff Carter. Same years. Same no movement. Same Free Agency guarantee.” 

Holmgren sits back and frowns. And Mike is convinced he’s blown it. Offer revoked. 

“That’s an odd request,” Holmgren says finally. 

“It’s what I want. He signs, then I’ll sign.” Mike bites the inside of his cheek, hard. 

Holmgren studies his face for a long minute, and Mike wonders what he’s seeing. 

“Done,” he says. 

 

 

 

 

They’re in practice when Jeff gets called to the front office. Mike’s supposed to be drilling odd-man rushes with his own line, but he reacts to hearing Jeff’s name called just as much as his own. He looks up, Jeff looks more or less _terrified_ as he’s heading off the ice. Mike glances back at his line, and then at Coach. _Fuck it._ He peels away from where they’re practicing, ignoring Umberger’s incredulous glance and Lupul’s confusion. 

He sprints for the edge of the ice, hopping the gate and coming to the edge of the rubber. “Hey! Carts!” he calls after Jeff. 

Jeff stops, turns around, and looks at him like he’s crazy, but he comes back over. “Dude, you are supposed to be _on the ice._ ” 

Mike shrugs, exasperated. “Jeff, listen. He’s going to offer you a contract.” 

Jeff’s frowns, confused. “What are you – _how_ – ” 

Mike shakes his head dismissingly. “He’s going to offer you a contract, Jeff. A good one. Twelve years, no movement, guaranteed agency.” 

Jeff’s eyes get huge. 

And, that _has_ to be good enough for him, right? “Sign it, okay?” Mike presses on, fast. “Say you’ll sign it.” 

Jeff gapes at him for a second. “Okay,” he says unsteadily. 

Mike nods. “Okay.” 

Jeff blinks. His gaze flicks back, over Mike’s shoulder. “I’ll sign. Go back to practice, okay? Before Coach kills both of us.” 

Mike takes a step backwards. Jeff gives him a last, curious glance before heading down the tunnel. Mike smiles. Let Coach scream all he wants, they’re about to sign _twelve year_ contracts. Together. 

 

 

 

 

By January, they’re holding onto the fourth seed in the East with both hands, and now they’re dressing for a game against the Black & Gold, which are _always_ fun nights. 

“What’s the count?” Umberger asks. 

Mike smirks at Jeff. “40 - 36.” 

Jeff sighs and stops lacing his skates for a second. _“28 – 19,”_ he corrects patiently. 

Mike grins, because, yeah, ever since signing their contracts, they’ve basically exploded. And then something occurs to him. “Holy shit, Carts, you’re on track to have a 50 goal year if you keep this up.” 

Jeff scowls at him. “Thanks Richie, jinx me some more, will you?” 

Mike stretches, bounces the best he can with skates on, and grins, unperturbed. His team, man, they’re golden, they don’t need to worry about jinxes. 

One minute in, Mike wins the draw and wings it back to Coburn. Coburn carries it in and sends it back to Mike. And then, _hallelujah,_ Loops is perfectly in front of the net. Goal. God, his fucking team. They are the _best._ They do it again at three minutes in, just because they can – _fuck you, Crosby._ The fans are screaming, the whole arena is awash in orange. Mike is practically vibrating. 

Pittsburgh answers their goals with two of their own. But after the first, Philly is running away with it, even as they’re back and forth on the PK the whole night as tempers flare. 

In the third there’s a scrum in front of the net, a whistle as Gagne goes flying. “Oh, _come on._ ” Crosby is already at the Ref’s side. “This is fucking ridiculous.” 

And Mike is there to talk to the Ref too, because he’s worked a deal with Smith where he handles shit on the ice, Smith off. “What’s ridiculous is your guys _charging_ my guys, aiming at their _heads,_ and getting called for a _minor._ ” He turns to the Ref. “How does that make sense?” 

Crosby spits on the ice. “Bull _shit._ Your guys are diving all over the ice out there. A fucking stiff breeze would knock them over.” 

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” Mike says, giving Crosby’s chest a hard shove. 

Crosby glares. 

The Ref hastily steps between them. 

Mike keeps going, hurling insults at Crosby over the Ref’s shoulder. “I surprised you can even keep track of who’s doing what, since I know how you like to spend half the game curled in a fetal position on the ice!” Mike’s pushing his luck with the Ref and he knows it. 

Crosby snarls. “At least I’m not stuck trying to make up my mind whether to be half-assed scorer or a half-assed enforcer. Really, what’s the deal there, Richards? You just thought you’d like to be bad at _everything?_ ” 

“Yeah? Well at least I have the balls to fucking _fight_ when it’s called for, instead of hiding behind a goddamn zebra!” 

“What?” Crosby tilts his head, mocking. “You mean like _Carter?_ ” 

Mike growls. And then there’s a linesman, hands on Mike’s shoulders, pushing him back. 

Crosby actually turns out to be prophetic, in a way, although also totally wrong. Because when things finally do boil over, Eager gets tangled with Laraque, and they both go down swinging; Hartnell starts some shit with Armstrong, and then _Whitney_ takes a swing at _Jeff._

Mike’s first thought is that he needs to rush out there and fucking _kill_ Whitney, but before he can do so much as stand up, Jeff is swinging _back._ And connecting. 

“Atta boy, Carts!” Lupul calls out next to him, and Mike just laughs. Then he looks over to see what Crosby’s doing, because Mike’s boys are totally winning this one. 

When he catches Crosby’s attention, Crosby rolls his eyes. “Classy, Richards. Really nice _hockey_ you boys play in Philly.” 

“Suck on it,” he answers Crosby cheerfully. 

 

 

They win. Of course they win; they are the fucking best that has ever played. Mike is bouncing with it, vibrating with it. He can hardly sit still long enough to get _undressed,_ removing one article of gear and pacing a lap, slapping guys on the shoulder, shaking them. He is viciously proud, jubilant, even. 

“Christ,” Knuble grumbles, “you’d think it was the Cup finals. Carts get him out of here before somebody has to punch him.” 

Which Mike is fine with, because every time he looks at Jeff he sees him being towed off to the penalty box, blood running down the side of his face, and Jesus, that is really doing it for him. 

He’s got his hand on Jeff’s arm, or the back of his neck, or he’s hip-checking him, all the way up to their room. He knows he’s touching Jeff too much, because he keeps shooting Mike these _looks,_ but Mike can’t bring himself to care. 

As soon as the door to their room is closed Mike’s got him up against it, and he’s trying to pull Jeff’s shirt up and get his pants open all at the same time. Jeff is just as frantic – one hand fisted in the front of Mike’s shirt, the other gripping his hair, and his mouth hot on Mike’s. Their clothes are hopelessly twisted, and we they try to take a step towards the bed, they go down hard in a heap. Jeff moans and scrambles the rest of the way out of his pants. Mike watches him lift his hips up off the floor to get them down, and he _has_ to climb on top of Jeff, grab at his wrists, so that the next time Jeff’s hips arch up, it’s into _him,_ and he’s grinding against _Mike._ “Can I – ” and he’s pressing one of Jeff’s knees up and back, reaching a hand, down, between his legs, “ _please,_ Jeff, I need – ” 

“Yeah, Mike, _yeah._ ” 

Mike never quite gets his shirt all the way off, and Jeff’s boxers are still wrapped around one ankle. They never quite make it all the way onto to bed, either. Mike fucks him bent over the edge of it, on their knees on the floor in a way they’re going to pay for tomorrow. 

On the plus side, the sheets stay mostly clean. 

 

 

He wakes to the sound of the alarm on Jeff’s watch beeping. Jeff slaps at the bedside table blindly until he finds it and silences the damn thing. He mutters something incomprehensible and rolls to face Mike, slides an arm around his waist and tugs. Mike turns over on his side obligingly, lets Jeff plaster himself to Mike’s back. Jeff sighs deeply against his neck. It’s nice. Jeff’s warm. 

Eventually though, grumbling, Jeff separates himself. He swipes at the light switch on the way into the bathroom and misses, apparently. Mike dozes; he hears the shower come on. But a minute later, Jeff is back, sitting on the edge of the bed, still dry. 

“There’s no hot water.” He sounds bitchy, and still mostly asleep. 

Mike rubs his face and sits up. It’s dark. Quieter than usual, colder too. Frowning, he hits the switch on the lamp. Nothing. “Power’s out.” 

Jeff blinks at him. “Think it’s Pittsburgh extracting revenge?” 

Mike grins. “Pittsburgh not smart enough to figure out something like that.” 

“What then? Power’s never been out before.” 

Mike shrugs. “Tree down somewhere?” 

Jeff frowns, unconvinced, and wings a t-shirt at his head. “Come on, let’s go running. Don’t need power to run.” 

They head to the gym, run laps in the dim light filtering through the windows. Halfway through, the overhead lights come back on, flickering and humming one after the next 

“There’s still no hot water,” Mike grouses, back in their room. 

“You gone soft,” Jeff teases him. “I remember plenty of cold showers when we were with the Phantoms.” 

Mike scowls. “You have no idea,” he mutters, mostly to himself. 

Jeff surprises him by reaching out to cup his face, affectionate in a way he’s not usually. At least not when he’s fully awake. “Hey. I caught on eventually, didn’t I?” 

Mike grins and Jeff runs his thumb over Mike’s lip. 

“When we’re done here,” Mike says before Jeff can take his hand away, before Mike can lose his nerve, “I’m going to take you back with me to Ontario. To my lake.” 

Jeff is looking at him soft and fond. “Is it your lake like it’s your team, Mike?” 

Embarrassed, Mike tries to duck away. But he can’t, not with Jeff’s hand on his face, his gaze steadily pinning him. “It will be. When I get Free Agency – then I can inherit. It’s my dad’s now and it’s – it’s important to me. If I inherit, the Union can’t claim it out from under us. That my mom won’t ever have to leave. That I’ll always have a place to go – that you’ll,” Mike stumbles. “You’ll always have a place there, if you want.” 

Jeff’s brow creases. “Twelve years is awfully far out to plan.” 

Mike frowns. “That’s what having contracts _means,_ Jeff. It means we _can_ plan.” 

“You don’t think you’ll be sick of me twelve years from now?” Jeff’s smiling again. Mike reaches up and tugs his hand down, holding it in his. 

“Oh, definitely.” He rolls his eyes at Jeff. But he doesn’t let Jeff’s hand go, and he’s shaking his head. Jeff squeezes his hand, and Mike looks down at their palms, pressed together. Something about it feels important, and his chest feels heavy, tight. He’s glad Jeff’s not going to make him say it out loud. 

 

 

 

 

Coburn comes out of the game against the Black & Gold woozy and snappish and Mike has been on this merry-go-round too many times not to recognize what that means. Which is why he’s pissed to discover Coburn’s name on the lines posted for tomorrow’s game. 

“Uh uh. No.” He tells Coburn at practice. “You’re not dressing for that game.” 

Coburn looks at him like he’s crazy. “ _Coach_ seems to disagree with you.” 

“I don’t care what Coach says. You’re not playing tomorrow.” 

Coburn just gapes at him. “Who do you think you _are,_ Richards?” 

Mike regards him seriously. Ducking the question seems like the easiest response. “You want to play tomorrow? Or do you want to play the rest of your career?” 

Coburn’s mouth shuts with a snap and he glares. “Look, I don’t exactly feel amazing, but maybe you’ve noticed our blue line is a little thin these days?” 

“I don’t care,” Mike says. “Don’t play.” 

“And Coach?” 

“Tell him I wouldn’t let you play. Let me deal with Coach.” 

Coburn’s gaze on him is steady. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Richie.” 

 

 

The fallout is not long in coming. He’s in the kitchen with Loops and ‘Berger when one of Stevens’ coterie of assistant coaches comes for him. “Richards!” he calls, barging into the room. “Coach Stevens wants to see you. Now.” He grabs Mike’s shoulder, thumb pressing hard into the space between his shoulder and neck, and starts marching him down the hall. 

Mike goes with it for a couple steps and then just – stops. And really, _fuck_ this. He shoves the assistant coach’s hand off him. The assistant coach takes a surprised step back, and Mike suddenly realizes he’s _bigger_ than the assistant coach is. And that probably shouldn’t feel like such a revelation, but it _is._ “Don’t _push_ me. I’m going, okay?” 

They make the rest of the trip in silence. But the assistant doesn’t touch him again. 

He takes a seat across the desk from Stevens. “Richards,” Coach begins reasonably enough, “did you tell Coburn he wasn’t playing in tomorrow’s game?” 

“Coburn’s concussed, sir. He’s not healthy enough to play.” 

Stevens takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m going to take that as a yes?” 

Mike nods and shrugs, casual. “Yes. Sir.” 

Stevens switches to rubbing his temples. “Richards, I’m not sure why you think you get a say in team personnel decisions, but in fact, you do not.” 

“Coburn’s not healthy enough to play,” he repeats. 

“That may or may not be true. But it’s not your decision to make. That’s _my_ decision to make.” 

Mike chews his lip. So far there’s been much less yelling than he expected. “Respectfully, sir,” he says, really and truly trying his best not to sound sarcastic, “you made the wrong decision.” 

“And if I say Coburn _is_ playing tomorrow?” 

Mike folds his hands in his lap. “Well, I don’t know. But I _imagine_ what might happen, is that your top three forward lines would all come down with the flu.” Mike’s ticking through names in his head even as he speaks – he hasn’t actually run this past any of the guys, but yeah, those are the ones that would follow him, for sure. 

A muscle jumps in Coach’s jaw. “Richards, have you ever heard the story of Odysseus and the Cyclops?” 

The _what?_ Mike shakes his head. 

“Or how about the expression, _pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before the fall?_ ” 

Their eyes meet. But Mike’s position on this team is inked down on paper, stitched into his sweater, stable in way Stevens’ isn’t, and they both know it. “I’m protecting the people I care about,” Mike says evenly. “I’d take a fall for that.” 

Stevens’ eyebrows lift. “I hope you’re prepared for the consequences of your actions, Richards.” 

Mike glowers, because that sounds like a _threat._ “I’m going to be on this team a long time, _Coach._ ” _Odds are, longer than you,_ he thinks. 

“Is that right?” 

“Yeah. And by this time next year, I’m going to be wearing the ‘C.’” Mike folds his arms across his chest. 

 

 

 

 

The power fails once the next week, and twice more the week after. Each time it’s back up within a couple hours, more a curiosity than anything else. 

That’s also the week Eager disappears. 

Official word is that he’s been sent down for a stretch – which is no big deal, Eager tends to bounce back and forth between the Orange and Phantoms depending on injuries and how the teams are playing. 

But now Mike is frowning, and the locker room has gone quiet. “What do you mean,” he says again, “that you haven’t seen him?” 

Sbisa cowers a bit under Mike’s glare, and Mike feels a little bad – Sbisa’s not much more than a _kid,_ called up for his first NHL stretch from the Phantoms, and he’s clearly uncomfortable at finding himself suddenly the center of attention. Sbisa’s shoulders curl. “He hasn’t played with us – not since November. Unless he started after I left.” 

Which doesn’t make sense at all, Sbisa’s only been here for one game. 

Mike is pissed. He repeats for a third time, “What do you _mean_ –” 

_“Richie.”_ Jeff steps between him and Sbisa. “Lay off, he doesn’t know anything.” 

Mike grinds his teeth, but he turns to finish dressing. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Jeff take a seat on the bench next to Sbisa. He keeps a hand on Sbisa’s shoulder, gives him a gentle shake as they exchange a few quiet words. _Good,_ Mike thinks, _let him handle the rookies._ Jeff’s good with the rookies – he was around for the summer, for dev camp – they like him. Besides, Mike has the _whole rest of the team to run._

He glances around, looking for Smith, irritated that _he’s_ not saying anything. _Smith_ is technically their Captain, after all. But Smith isn’t around. He’s probably off giving interviews, the only captainly activity he excels at. 

That night they lose by one to the fucking _Navy,_ a team they’ve been beating all season. In the handshake line, the Navy’s Russian superstar holds onto his hand a beat too long, and – there’s no love lost there, but Mike can appreciate a guy who’s as willing to throw the body as he is to score. Plus, Mike was the first guy in the NHL to beat the crap out of #8, so he’ll always have a soft spot for him for that reason. 

“Do you hear – ” Ovechkin starts. Just behind him, Fedorov hisses something low and angry in Russian, but Ovechkin waves him off. “I want to know and I _will_ ask.” His eyes lock back on Mike. “Do you hear anything, from the West?” 

Mike blinks, confused. 

“From the teams in the West?” There’s a note of urgency entering Ovechkin’s voice, and yeah, they’re holding up the line. 

Mike shakes his head – no. Because he hasn’t heard news coming out of the West for a while now. 

Ovechkin nods slowly. “So it is not just us then.” And he skates on. 

 

 

After the game, Mike stays up late, comparing notes with the guys. It comes as a shock when Upshall tells him they’ve stopped televising Western Conference games. “You didn’t _know?_ ” Upshall sounds amazed. 

Mike shakes his head numbly. His head’s been _on the ice_ lately. _Or on Jeff,_ a small, guilty voice contributes. He hasn’t really been paying much attention to – a lot of things, really. 

“Shit. The papers only carry news about the Division, these days,” Loops adds. “Maybe box scores from rest of the East, _maybe._ ” 

Mike sneaks a look at Jeff, who’s staring steadily at the table top. “Yeah?” he asks. 

Frowning, Jeff twists his hands and looks up. “Sbisa says the Phantoms are having a hard time filling out their roster. That they’re short on guys, and that games are getting canceled.” 

And what does _that_ even mean? 

 

 

Jeff has a way of re-directing conversations _away_ from politics, so the next time they slip out, Mike waits until Jeff has disappeared with some random chick to consult Julia. She sighs, looking displeased. “You idiot, it’s not just _hockey._ ” She flashes him a tight smile to soften it, but there’s real irritation in her voice. “There’s no _news_ coming in from the other provinces.” 

“But, why?” Mike asks. 

They’re out back, behind the club. Julia’s loading boxes into the back of a van, and she sets the one she’s holding down, folds her arms across her chest. She’s looks torn, like she’s trying to decide what to tell him. “I don’t know exactly – it’s getting harder to communicate with our people in other provinces. They’re cracking down on inter-province travel, requiring more permits. Permits that are harder to forge.” And that’s as close as she’s ever come to talking about all the other _stuff_ she does. 

“But.” She picks her box back up. “People are angry. There are reports coming in of civil disobedience. Demonstrations. From the Green, the Burgundy & Blue, the Blue & White.” 

“The Blue & White?” Mike stiffens. 

“They’re just _rumors,_ Mike.” She frowns. “You can’t worry too much about stuff like this. It’s like jumping at shadows.” Her expression gets darker. “The central committee of the Orange, though – and the Union overall – is skewing more conservative. The new Province Director _is_ a Morality Officer. If you want to worry about something, worry about that.” 

Mike shakes his head. “Screw the Orange’s moral authority – they’re rotten, the lot of them. What’s that got to do with us?” 

Julia grits her teeth, squeezes her eyes shut for a second. “Mike, the team – _your_ team – is basically the PR wing of the central committee of the Orange. Why do you think the team and the province have the same name? You represent them. You provide the people with a distraction from their shitty lives. They can point to your success and call it their own – ” 

“My _team,_ ” Mike breaks in angrily, “is not a _PR stunt._ ” 

“ _Yeah,_ it _is._ ” Julia’s voice is rising. “But, that’s not _the point –_ ” 

_“June.”_

Mike spins around, Jeff is standing there, arms crossed, looking pissed. 

Julia startles as well. She stops and purses her lips, looking equally aggravated. “Yes, _Nick?_ ” 

Mike watches their staring contest. And then it dawns on him. He turns to Jeff. “Wait. Did you already know?” 

A guilty expression crosses Jeff’s face. “Mike – ” 

“What the _fuck,_ Jeff?” 

Jeff shoots another quick, angry look at Julia, but when he looks at Mike, his expression softens. “You had enough to worry about.” He swallows nervously. “Mike?” 

Mike presses his fingers to his temples. Why would Jeff be talking to Julia about all this, when he won’t talk to _Mike_ about it? He looks back at Julia. “What _is_ the point, then?” 

Julia sighs. “I’m saying they’ll treat you like heroes when you’re winning, but they’ll throw you under the bus just as fast if you start losing. And the conservatives don’t just care how you _play;_ they have certain expectations about who you should _be._ You need to be _careful._ And you need to keep winning.” 

 

 

 

 

Spring, and they’re up against the Navy again, this time in the conference quarterfinals. 

They win two, then drop one in Washington, and now they’re back home, waiting in the tunnel. Mike bounces his fist off Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff nods – he’s already in Game Mode, focused, quiet. 

Around them, the building is vibrating. People in the stands are screaming, stomping their feet, and it all blends into one continuous roar. 

One of their rookies bolts out of line and is suddenly doubled-over, heaving into the trashcan. Mike squeezes Jeff’s arm to get his attention. 

Jeff looks up, and it takes him just a second to pick up on what Mike’s pointing out with his gaze. “I got it,” Jeff says. Mike watches him pull a glove off, set one hand between the kid’s shoulder blades. Just barely over the crowd noise, Mike can pick up the sound of Jeff’s voice, murmuring to him. 

He can tell when the Navy hits the ice because the crowd noise swells – changing timbre to low boos and hisses. Mike looks upward, as if he could see through the cement walls, into the crowd above them. The crowd sounds _mean._

And then it’s their turn. Mike bends his knees, bouncing in place, cracks his neck. He hits the ice at a run – the crowd is _roaring,_ just a wall of indistinguishable sound, an almost physical pressure on his eardrums. 

The crowd keeps it up too, they play to a wall of sound for three full periods, one overtime, and the six minutes of the second OT that it takes Knuble to get the puck in the net, with an assist from Jeff. 

“Yes!” He tells Jeff, when he can finally get through the pile of guys surrounding him and Knuble. He throws his arms around him. “Yes, yes, _yes._ ” 

 

 

But they just can’t close out the series. They drop Game 5 in Washington. They’re _about_ to lose Game 6 at home. The crowd is pissed. The chanting has gotten ugly in a way it usually only does against the Black  & Gold. _Russia sucks,_ they’re screaming, and _Fuck you, import._ And, yeah, the Navy does have, like, an army of imported scoring talent – but still. 

Mike swings past the net with a fresh water bottle while the Refs are arguing something. “How you doing?” he asks Niitty. 

Niitty _looks_ at him, his expression stormy behind his cage. 

“They’re not talking about you,” Mike tries, uneasy. 

Niitty just snags the water bottle and glares. “Out of my crease, Richards.” 

They’re still down when the clock runs out. 

 

 

 

 

Jeff finds him in the trainers’ lounge. The one the trainers hate using because the furniture is all ridiculously uncomfortable. Jeff knows all his hiding spots, which Mike guesses is fair, since he knows all of Jeff’s. 

“Staring at the wall is not going to change the fact that we lost, Mike,” Jeff says, closing the door behind him. 

Mike’s mouth twists. He’s in the room’s least uncomfortable chair, pushed back to balance on two legs, feet propped on the table. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks away. He played a miserable game, and they lost. He can sulk if he wants to. 

Jeff comes up behind him and puts his hands on the back of Mike’s chair – which causes it to drop a couple inches – sending Mike scrambling, heart leaping into his throat, before Jeff catches his weight. 

“ _Jeff._ What the fuck?” He scowls up at Jeff. 

Jeff calmly peers down at him. “We’re going to win Game Seven.” He tips Mike’s chair forward, setting it down on all four legs and walking around to stand in front of him. 

“I _know,_ ” Mike grumbles. That is, assuming he can get his shit together. And then he notices Jeff’s got a jacket on. Boots. “You’re going _out?_ You can’t go out – we’re in the middle of a series!” 

Jeff gives him an irritated look. “I’m not going to get _drunk._ I just want to see June – she’s only in town tonight before she has to leave again. I’ll be back early.” 

_“Fine.”_ Mike is tired, pissy, and apparently Jeff would rather go out than hang out with him – would rather hang out with Julia – with _June_. “So, what? You just came down here to rub it in my face?” 

Jeff blinks. “What? Rub _what_ in your face? I came down here to try to convince you to come with me.” Jeff’s exasperated. “But not if you’re going to be a jackass.” 

“Whatever. If you want to play some stupid game trying to make me jealous – just – whatever. I don’t care.” 

Jeff is staring at him, bewildered. And then he looks angry. “Jealous? Why would _you_ be jealous? _You’re_ the one who goes on dates with her. _You’re_ the one who’s going to _marry_ her. _You’re_ the one who could walk down the middle of street with her, in broad daylight, arm in arm, and no one would bat an eye!” He stops, takes a deep breath, and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “Look. I know you’re just pissy about losing, okay? So I’m going to _go,_ and we’re going to pretend this whole _stupid_ conversation never happened.” 

Mike doesn’t answer, and Jeff blows out a sharp, irritated sigh. “Fine,” he says, and leaves. 

 

 

When Mike finally drags himself out and upstairs to the common room, he finds a bunch of the guys watching some dumb movie. Loops moves over on the couch to make room for him. He flops down, barely flicks a glance at the screen. 

Loops looks pointedly behind Mike. “No Carts?” 

Mike glowers. “No.” 

“Trouble in paradise?” Loops asks in a lower voice, casting him a sidelong glance. 

Mike shrugs. He’s not about to talk about it. 

Loops nods solemnly, and it’s always hard to tell if Loops is mocking him or not. Mike turns his attention to the screen. 

Later, Loops’ fingers brush across the back of his neck. Mike glances over, startled, but Loops isn’t looking at him, and it doesn’t happen again. 

 

 

He’s not _waiting up,_ for Jeff – he just can’t sleep, Mike tells himself. Jeff might not even come back tonight. He might stay out with Julia, considering what an asshole Mike was about the whole thing. Just thinking about it gives Mike a sick feeling in his stomach. 

When Jeff does finally come home, he closes the door behind him softly, and Mike can tell he’s trying to be quiet. The bed dips when Jeff climbs in. 

Jeff looks over at him. “Sorry,” he says quietly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“Yeah, well.” Mike scrubs a hand across his face. “I wasn’t sleeping.” 

Jeff rolls onto his side, props his head on his hand. “You worried about Tuesday?” 

Well. The upcoming game is _one_ of the things he’s worried about. Mike shrugs. His throat works. 

“Hey. I’m sorry – I shouldn’t of left.” Jeff’s expression is concerned. “But it’s not all on you, Mike.” 

Mike huffs out a small sigh. “Sometimes it feels like it is,” he admits. 

Jeff looks at him – _stares_ at him – for a long moment. “You’re an idiot,” he says finally. He’s smiling, just a little bit. 

_“Hey – ”_

“You’re an idiot, I’m here, I’ll help you,” Jeff says, softer, and tugs at him, pulling until they’re sprawled against each other, intertwined. 

 

 

 

 

Game seven comes down to overtime, again. Mike can feel the blood pulsing just beneath his skin. “We are _not_ washing out in the first round again,” he tells them. 

He’s watching from the bench, Jeff’s line on the ice. Ovechkin cracks a shot off from just north of the circles – Niitty blocks it, but the rebound’s loose. Jeff and Fedorov are battling for it against the boards. The Navy are screaming to each other in Russian, and there are pops and flashes of electric red as guys jostle for position, waiting to see where the puck will come free. 

Fedorov comes out with it, passes it to Ovechkin again, who fires a shot that makes Mike’s heart stop. 

And Niitty blocks it. 

“Fucking, _christ,_ ” says Lupul next to him, and Mike can only nod. 

Then one of the Navy D-men trips Umberger up, who goes flying – ending up face down and sliding across the ice. For a second, Mike thinks the Refs _aren’t going to call it,_ but there’s a whistle. 

The stands – a sea of dark blue and red – erupt into boos. 

Power play. Mike looks up, locks eyes with Coach Stevens. Stevens nods, “Richards – go.” Mike’s unit hits the ice. 

Mike’s first shot goes wide, but he gets a pass off to Timo. Timo gets it to Loops in front of the net. Loops takes a shot. Blocked. Catches the rebound. 

_In._

Loops is jumping and screaming. Mike is jumping and screaming. Even _Stevens,_ on the bench, may have actually leapt into the air – but then Mike is throwing himself against Loops, and is sandwiched in by the entire rest of the team, and therefore can’t see shit. 

Of course, later Loops grins his wicked grin, and acts like he could have scored one anytime, he was just waiting for the right dramatic moment, but whatever. Mike’ll take it. 

 

 

 

 

They get _two_ days before the semis. The luxury of it is overwhelming, and Mike is seriously considering sleeping for all of it. 

Except that Jeff is prodding his shoulder. 

“Mmph,” Mike mutters and shoves Jeff’s hand away. It’s somehow already bright in the room; he drags a pillow over his face. 

“Good morning, sunshine.” Jeff is stretching out beside him. “Except it’s almost two, so I guess I should say good _afternoon,_ and which means you’ve been asleep for… close to fourteen hours now.” 

“So?” Mike grumbles. He could totally sleep another fourteen, no problem. Although, Jeff is kneading his hip and that’s pretty nice. That might be worth waking up for. 

“So – ” Jeff pulls the pillow off his head. “You have a meeting with Smith and the coaching staff at 2:30.” 

Mike blinks up at him. “Who’s stupid idea was it to make it so _early?_ ” 

Jeff shrugs. “Yours probably. Come on, get in the shower.” 

When he emerges, clean but still bleary, Jeff is frowning intently at the piles of clothing scattered around the room. Some of them are probably clean. He looks at Mike. 

“I don’t even know, man.” Mike rubs the towel across his head. “Hey – do you know where – ” 

Jeff presses a protein bar into his hand. “Video room. Go.” 

“Thanks.” Jeff’s been nicer lately. Although, maybe _nicer_ isn’t the right word. Conscientious? Whatever it is, it gives Mike an odd, warm feeling, right in the pit of his stomach. Mike sets out, wondering vaguely if this is how his parents feel about each other all the time. 

 

 

 

 

They take out the Blue & Red in the semis, easy. Then they run into Pittsburgh. Headfirst. 

The first game is a fucking bloodbath. They spend most of it down 4-0, and it ends 4-1. 

Before the second game, Mike doesn’t even have to say anything. Everybody just _knows._

Mike takes the opening faceoff against Crosby, and when he looks over at him, it’s as if Crosby’s looking _through_ him, his expression blank. And throughout the game, it’s like fiery, snivelly, petty, vicious Sidney Crosby is _gone._ Which sort of sucks, because those were all the things that made him so much _fun_ to _hate._ And it really sucks because in his place is some sort of hockey-playing _robot_ – who doesn’t make mistakes, who cannot be goaded into fights, and who is running Mike fucking ragged. 

They go into OT tied at 2-2. They lose. 

They explode out of the gate in Game 3 – the crowd is behind them, screaming, Orange flags waving. Jeff scores early, to put them up one nothing, and sound in the arena _doubles._ Two minutes later Mike finds the back of the net, too. 2-0. 

That is when the fights break out. They’re in the middle of a change, and the stragglers on their fourth lines tangle with the Black & Gold’s, sticks flaring into life up and down the boards, whistles going off everywhere. And then Kunitz gets Hartsy down on the ice – and he’s not stopping, he’s switching his grip up, shifting to hold it down near the sticking knife, holding it like a _dagger._ Mike is on his feet – 

“You will _not_ set foot off this bench.” Coach sets a heavy hand on his shoulder. Mike twists to face him, incredulous, because can’t he _see_ what’s going on out there? 

Coach continues in a quieter tone. “If you do, you will be ejected from the game, Richards. And we can’t afford that.” 

And Mike slumps back into place, because he’s _right._ He looks back out on the ice, and he’s in time to see Giroux – one of Jeff’s rookies, called up for playoffs – side tackle Kunitz out of way. He breathes a sigh of relief. 

And then time slows down – because as Kunitz and Giroux go sliding, Letang jumps to get out their way, and he _stumbles,_ hops a few awkward steps to catch his balance, and he’s got his stick angled up and to the side, and he’s not even _looking_ but Jeff is _right there._

Jeff isn’t looking either, because it’s all happening too fast, but Mike can see it all unfolding, like fucked up dominos, like a nuclear chain reaction. And the knife is at a perfect angle to hit the white, unprotected expanse of Jeff’s _throat._

Mike watches Jeff blink. And then Jeff’s throwing himself backwards, _twisting,_ and he comes down, hard, on the boards, but he gets back up. He’s fine. Mike starts breathing again. 

They take the game 6-3. 

After the game, the locker room is in a victorious mood. “You going to come hang with us, right?” Hartsy asks. “We’re going to have a beer, watch something stupid, and talk about how awesome we are.” 

Mike’s eyes dart to Jeff. “Yeah,” he answers, distracted. Mike is pleased too, but it’s overlaid on top of a twitchy, restless feeling that’s been curling around his chest ever since Jeff’s near-accident in the first. “Yeah, we’ll be there,” he says finally. “We just need to ditch these stupid suits.” 

What he really needs is to put his hands on Jeff, to confirm that he’s _whole_ and _okay._ He herds Jeff up towards their room, ignoring the _looks_ the guys are giving him, and promising them they’ll be back to hang out _soon._

_He’s fine,_ he tells himself, _Jeff is fine._ Inside their room, he breathes a sigh of relief and pulls Jeff close to him. 

But Jeff _winces._ He says, “I think I did something to my shoulder.” 

Mike frowns. “What do you mean?” he says carefully. 

Jeff shrugs and winces again at the motion, looking vaguely embarrassed. “It hurts.” 

“When?” 

“In the first, I think,” Jeff answers. 

Mike sets his jaw. “Why didn’t you say something _earlier?_ ” 

In response, Jeff scowls at him. “Don’t give me that look. It didn’t hurt this much earlier.” 

Still frowning, Mike strips him of his shirt and jacket. The region at the very end of Jeff’s collarbone is definitely starting to swell. “Right. We’re going to the trainers.” 

“Mike – ” 

But really, this is something Mike would do for any of his guys, if not with quite the same sense of urgency. There’s no point in arguing. So he drags Jeff back out of the room, back down the hall. When they walk past the common room, Loops takes in Jeff in his undershirt, and Mike still in his suit, and says, “I think you forgot something Richie, your room’s the _other_ way.” Next to him, Niitty snorts. 

But Mike doesn’t have time to do much more than flip them the bird and keep walking. They take the skybridge out of players’ quarters, down the stairs to where all the staff offices are. They’re mostly dark – it’s late. 

The first office they pass where the light’s still on is Stevens’. He’s watching video on his tablet, but he looks up when they come in, gaze flickering between Mike and Jeff. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Carts’ shoulder,” Mike says shortly. 

Stevens’ frowns, picks up the phone on his desk, and punches in a number. “Alice? Can you get ahold of Pete? Tell him to come back in? Thanks.” He sighs, picks up his keys. “Come on.” 

He lets them into the trainers’ room and digs a cold pack out of the freezer. “Can you lift your arm?” 

“Mostly.” Jeff demonstrates. 

Stevens hands the cold pack over to Jeff. “Pete’s going to come in and take an x-ray. But it looks like you just separated it.” 

“Can I play?” Jeff asks. 

“Let’s see what Pete says, okay?” 

When Pete gets in, he tests Jeff’s range of motion, extending his arm, pulling it this way and that. “Ow, _fuck,_ ” Jeff says at one point – and Mike has to basically sit on his hands to keep from doing something suicidaly stupid , like trying to hold one of Jeff’s. 

Pete says it’s separated and hands him a sling. Jeff stares at him blankly. “Yeah. But can I _play?_ ” 

Coach looks skeptical. “You won’t have a shot.” 

“I can still pass. Skate. Screen.” Jeff’s voice is tense. 

There’s a pause, into which Mike says, “What happens if his shoulder gets hit again?” All three of them are suddenly looking at him. 

Pete opens his mouth. Hesitates. “Well, we could pad it. But he could certainly injure it further. Bad enough to need surgery.” 

Mike grinds his teeth. 

“Richie.” Jeff is giving him a _look._ He swings his attention to Stevens. “Coach. I can _play._ ” 

Coach chews the inside of his cheek, thoughtful. “All right. You play.” 

“ _Coach_ – ” Mike says at the same time Jeff says, _“Thank you.”_

Stevens looks between them and shakes his head. “Thanks, Pete. You two – walk with me.” As they near the exit, he points at the sling. “You wear that _every second_ you’re in players’ quarters, and _not at all_ when you’re outside, got it? Don’t talk about it with anybody who doesn’t wear skates for us. As far as the office and everyone else is concerned, your shoulder is _fine_ – got it?” 

Mike frowns. “Coach –” he tries again. 

Stevens gives him a sharp look and claps him on the shoulder. “Manage this, Richards.” 

 

 

Mike interprets _manage this_ as pulling Hartsy aside before the fourth game and saying, “You will _not_ let anyone hit Carts on the right.” 

Hartnell blinks at him. “It’s _hockey,_ Richie – I don’t work miracles.” 

 

 

 

 

Game four is brutal. Jeff is useless with the puck – no shot, almost no pass – but he’s doing an admirable job drawing penalties. Guys are going after him like they _know._ Like there’s blood in the water. They’re down by two almost the whole game, then, just as exhaustion is setting in, they put one in halfway through the third, just enough to get their hopes up. But they can’t get a second goal, and Pittsburgh gets the empty-netter to make it 3-1. It is by far Mike’s least favorite game of the season. 

In their room, Jeff looks about how Mike feels. He’s sitting on the bed glowering and grumbles when Mike passes him his sling and some ice, as if personally offended by Mike’s cosseting. “You know, I am actually an adult, and I’ve been hurt before, right?” 

_“Surgery,”_ Mike emphasizes. “He said you could you could need _surgery._ That would put you out for _weeks._ ” 

“ _If_ it gets worse,” Jeff snaps. “ _If._ And it hasn’t, so _lay off._ ” 

 

 

They win game five in Pittsburgh, but Jeff has to be dragged back to players’ quarters. 

“Mike, I need to get _out_ of here. I’m going crazy.” He does sound sort of desperate. 

But – Jeff needs to wear his sling as much as possible. Jeff can only wear his sling inside quarters. Ergo, Mike has been against him leaving. “Your shoulder – ” 

“ _Fuck_ my shoulder.” 

There is a brief, but intense, stare down that Mike wins when Jeff is unable to resist rolling his eyes. He lets his head thump against the wall. 

Mike’s phone buzzes, and he cocks his head in surprise because it’s Julia, and she’s been sort of scarce lately. _congrats, love._

Mike grinds his teeth, gaze flickering between Jeff and the phone. Jeff is still curled in on himself, looking miserable. Mike texts, _2 down 2 to go. you in town?_

There’s a pause, and then Mike’s phone responds: _yes. but its not a good night to come out._

Mike frowns. _why not?_

His phone buzzes almost instantly. _restless sort of night. extra patrols out. not safe._

Mike chews his lip and glances up to find Jeff watching him curiously. “Jules,” Mike says, and Jeff nods absently. Mike looks down at his phone again, and texts her: _jeff got hurt, hes going a little stir crazy._

There’s a longer pause, and then: _if i can get to wachovia, can you get me in?_

He frowns, chewing his lip absently. It’s not a _good idea,_ per se, but it would make Jeff happy, and he is _so_ miserable. 

_Yes,_ he sends. 

 

 

Mike helps her over the wall. His feet slide a bit in the mud, and her hands clutch his shoulders reflexively. “Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Yes, but – ” she’s already glancing around and tugging him towards the building, “ – we need to get inside.” 

Mike frowns and studies the skyline behind her: it’s lit up by an odd, hazy light. “What – ” 

Julia grabs his hand. He can barely make out her face but she looks pale. “Keep moving, Mike. Come on.” 

The building is mostly deserted at this hour, and even in players’ quarters, the hallways are surprisingly empty. Checking that the coast is clear, Mike shepherds her the last of the way into his room. Julia shrugs off her coat and then her eyes catch on Jeff and his sling. “Oh – Nicky.” 

Jeff smiles and rolls his eyes. “It’s really _fine,_ ” he assures her. 

She crosses the room to him. Her hands flutter before taking hold of his face gently. “And you’re _playing_ like this?” She glances back at Mike, incredulous. Like this is _his_ fault, somehow. 

“It’s not a big deal.” Jeff shifts his legs over so she can sit down. She tucks herself next to him, taking his hand in hers. And then they’re staring at each other. 

The jealous feeling is still there, in Mike’s stomach; it makes his skin prickle, evokes a bitter taste in the back of his throat. “I’m going to go get some ice.” Neither of them look up when he leaves. 

He gets sidetracked on his way to the kitchen when he notices there’s a group gathered at the end of the hall – staring out the bank of windows. Mike comes up behind them and ducks between guys until he can see what they’re looking at. He blinks, like maybe it’s an illusion – his eyes playing tricks on him. “What the fuck.” 

Next to him, a couple of guys just shake their heads silently. Eyes locked on the scene in front of them. 

It’s burning. 

The city is _burning._ The fires aren’t super close to them – but near enough that Mike can make out the orange, flickering light, billowing clouds of black smoke. He spins on his heel and heads back to their room. There’s a split second where he hesitates outside the door, wondering if he should knock, and his cheeks flush at the thought, but _fuck it,_ Philadelphia is _on fire._

Julia pulls back sharply, her hand still on Jeff’s cheek, at the sound of the door. They both look startled. 

Jeff relaxes when he sees it’s just Mike, but then he looks irritated. “Mike, what – ” 

Mike ignores him and crosses the room to get right in Julia’s face. “Julia. What is _going on_ out there?” 

There’s a flash of _fear_ on Julia’s face, that she’s tries and fails to hide. “It’s what I was _trying_ to tell you.” There’s a pause where she swallows, and her hands clutch anxiously at Jeff. “I don’t know. I _don’t know_ what’s going on.” And then she’s crying, hiding her face in Jeff’s shoulder. 

Jeff looks wildly between them. “Mike, what the _fuck?_ ” he saying, even as he’s getting his good arm around Julia, pulling her close. 

“The city is on fire!” 

“And you told her to _come here?_ ” Jeff asks, incredulous, like Mike deliberately endangered her. 

Mike throws his hands up. “I didn’t tell _anyone_ to do _anything!_ ” 

Jeff glares at him, clearly implying that Mike is making the situation _worse._ Mike cautiously puts one hand over Julia’s, where she has it balled in the fabric of Jeff’s shirt. She’s shivering. Shaking. When she finally gets ahold of herself, she says, “I wanted to come, Jeff. I needed to see that you were okay.” She glances over at Mike. “And I didn’t tell him how bad it was.” She slips her hand into Mike’s. “Things have been tightening up for weeks. More patrols. More checkpoints. Arrests.” She takes her hand back and for a second, presses it to her mouth, hard.. “A lot of people are leaving – heading north. Or west.” 

Mike blinks. They’ve been wrapped up in the playoffs, all of this is new to him. He glances over at Jeff. 

But Jeff looks just as surprised as he is. More than that, he looks concerned. “Are _you_ leaving?” 

Julia shakes her head haltingly. “I still have – contacts here. I’m still safe here, I think.” 

“You _think?_ ” Mike asks, incredulous, because what if she’s _not_ safe? What if someone followed her here? She could be getting them in _so much trouble._

Julia looks lost for a moment. Distant. Then she shakes herself sharply. “Someone has to stay. Clean up the mess that’s going to get left behind.” 

Jeff’s arm tightens around her. 

“Clean up the mess,” Mike repeats, and he’s twigging to what’s happening. “And everyone else? The club?” 

“Gone,” she says softly. “Or it will be, as of Saturday night. They’re packing up the operation at the club, moving the whole thing out of town.” 

Jeff turns and fixes his gaze on Mike. Even without saying anything, Mike knows exactly what Jeff is asking him. And, god – what a phenomenally bad idea, but when has he ever been able to tell Jeff no? “Saturday night,” Mike says slowly. “How can we help?” 

She’s already shaking her head before he’s finished asking. “It’s not safe.” Her gaze flicks to Mike, but mostly she’s looking at Jeff – with such genuine concern that Mike feels like an asshole for worrying about her getting them in trouble. She cares about them, or about Jeff at least. She wouldn’t put him in harm’s way. 

“Julia,” Jeff says softly. “They’re our friends, too. They helped me.” He fingers his PerT tags unconsciously, looks up at Mike. “Helped both of us.” 

There’s a voice in his head screaming about what a bad idea this is, an anxious warning prickle on his skin. But it’s clear Jeff’s made up his mind about going. So Mike bites his lip, swallows his concerns. “They’ll be packing? Loading the trucks Saturday night?” 

She nods carefully. 

“Then let us help.” 

 

 

Saturday is also Game Six of the fucking Conference Finals. Possibly the most important game of hockey Mike has played, to date. And yet, he feels _there_ and also _not there._ The locker room – the whole building – has a heavy, solemn feel. No one is mentioning the fires, not Coach, not Holmgren when he stopped by to congratulate them on making it this far. No one. 

It’s like they’re in some sort of weird, hockey cocoon. Except that for once, Mike feels like he’s on the outside looking in, and it’s giving him an odd, panicky sensation. Next to him, Gagne taps his stick against Mike’s leg. “Easy,” he says, in a low tone. And Mike is suddenly, incredibly, grateful that _someone_ at least has played in game six of the Conference Finals before. 

“Yeah. Thanks, man,” he mutters and turns his attention back to where Coach is finishing up. 

“One last thing,” Coach Stevens says, dropping the clipboard down to his side and looking around at them. “We’re playing in front of an empty house tonight. Don’t let it throw you.” 

Mike exchanges a glance with Jeff, because, _what?_

 

 

When they skate out, it’s to dead silence – just the sounds of Pittsburgh warming up on their half. The scrape of skates against the ice, shots ricocheting off the boards – they all echo extra loud in the quiet. 

They skate. Line up. But it’s not until they play the anthem that Mike lets himself look around the empty stands, and there’s a hysterical laugh bubbling up inside him, because they’re playing the anthem for _no one_ to hear. The stands are _empty._ He’s gripping his bucket and his stick tight. _Are they going to announce penalties?_ He wonders. And then, right on the heels of that thought, _are they going to play the goal song?_ He has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek, because it is either that, or scream. 

His line leads off, but everyone seems slow. Even the Ref stumbles a little, on his way out to center ice. For a second, Mike makes eye contact with the Black & Gold centerman, and all he can think is, _with everything going on outside, why am I playing against_ you? 

The Black & Gold center has huge, dark eyes with a Slavic tilt to them. Just for an instant, they look as lost as Mike feels. And then they harden. 

_Right,_ Mike thinks, _hockey._

The puck drops. 

No music. No announcements. No cheering. No boos. Just the slap of rubber to stick, rubber to a glove. The voice of his linemates in his ears. The thud and rattle of bodies hitting the boards. The hiss of the sticking knife. Just sweat. The hum of adrenaline under his skin. The burn of exertion. 

They end the second tied, 3-3. Mike gulps water during the break, and when he skates back onto the ice for the start of the third, he finally notices that even with the stands empty, even with no one around, the cameras along the boards still turn to follow his movements. 

And that’s when it hits him: they’re just going to fix it all later. When they broadcast the game across the Union – when his _parents_ watch the game – everything will look _normal._ They’ll just paint the audience in, like dabbing scenery onto a canvas. The game will be normal. There’ll be a happy crowd. Philadelphia will have never burned. No one’s been arrested, because no one is protesting. No one is protesting because no one is unhappy. 

Mike stumbles. And suddenly Jeff is at his elbow. “Keep skating, Mike.” 

_“Jeff,”_ is all Mike can manage. 

“I know.” Jeff’s voice is low, but steady. And, _of course,_ Jeff knows – Jeff probably put it all together the minute they stepped out onto the ice. “Just keep skating,” Jeff is saying, “just twenty more minutes.” 

 

 

In the next twenty minutes they lose the lead. They lose the game, the series, the finals. Their season is done. 

 

 

Mike is shaky in the locker room. Numb. A hand drops down on his shoulder. “Jeff – ” Mike says, but when he looks up, it’s Loops. 

Loops is looking down at him, gaze narrowed. 

Loops says, “I thought you’d yell at us more, if we lost. Are you okay?” 

Mike blinks and licks his lip. “I – what?” 

Loops drops down into a crouch in front of him, keeps one hand on the back of Mike’s neck. He looks at Mike, intent. “Come on, Richie. Let’s go upstairs. It’s time to get wasted with the guys and moan about what might have been.” 

Mike looks around and, yeah, the locker room is empty. He stands up. “Carts?” he asks Lupul, feeling sort of lost. 

Loops mouth twists into a wry smile. “Carter told you, like, three times that he was headed up to his room.” Then his gaze softens. “Come on, let’s go get him.” 

 

 

Loops keeps a hand on his shoulder on the walk up to Jeff’s room. Mike’s room, too, really, if anybody would just come out and say it. Which, of course, they won’t. Loops keeps his hand there, and Mike has to quash the urge to shrug it off as they walk inside. Jeff glances up at them; he’s got his phone in hand. 

“Hey, Carts,” Loops says. 

“Loops.” Jeff’s gaze flicks over to Mike. “Richie?” he says, and there’s a question there. But Mike isn’t quite sure what it is. 

Loops knows. Or, at least, thinks he does. “Oh, I see,” he says. “You guys are going _out_ tonight.” 

“No.” Jeff frowns at him. “Well, we are, but not like that.” 

“I want to come,” Loops says, looking suddenly mischievous, eyes dancing. “Whatever it is, I want to go too.” 

 

 

In the end, it’s not like there’s a whole lot they can do to shake him. And when Loops sees the trucks in the alley behind the club being loaded up, his face gets serious. Mike can tell the minute he puts it all together, mouth fading into a flat line, gaze going intense. Loops takes a box away from Mya, who’s struggling under the weight, and says, “Yeah. I’ll help.” 

They load food, and water, and boxes whose contents Mike feels safer not knowing. 

And at the end, they put their friends inside, too. 

Andrew the bartender fist bumps him from the driver’s seat. “Take her easy, bro.” 

Mike nods. “Safe travels.” 

Mya has her whole torso leaning out the window, and Julia has her arms wrapped around her. “Be safe. Oh, please be safe, be safe, be safe,” Mya says, tears flowing down her face free and unchecked. 

Jeff puts one arm around Julia and rests the other across Mike’s shoulders. Together, they watch the taillights fade out of sight. 

They go inside, down to the basement room that used to be a dance floor, accompanied by everyone else who couldn’t leave. Or wouldn’t. And dozens of half-empty liquor bottles that weren’t worth packing. 

Loops strums his fingers across someone’s discarded guitar, then picks out a few simple chords. “This,” he says, glancing around, “looks like a _party._ ” 

Julia laughs, shrill and sudden. But then she and one of the other girls start lighting candles. There’s an odd, wake-like atmosphere – the room all soft at the edges, filled with red eyes and open bottles. 

But the room’s lightening by degrees. Or, at least, Mike’s drinking, and the room _feels_ like it’s lightening, and maybe that’s the same thing. The mood shifts from funereal, through sharp, raw cheer, to simple camaraderie. Loops hands the guitar off to somebody that can actually _play,_ and then he’s spinning some girl across the dance floor, movements just this side of out of control. Mike is laughing because it’s _hilarious,_ the whole thing, the whole place, the whole game, the whole series, the whole _world._

Jeff’s chin is on his shoulder, his arms snaking around Mike’s waist from behind. “What’s so funny?” He asks. And then his mouth is on Mike’s earlobe. His neck. Mike sort of loses the thread. Everything is fucked up, everything about his life is either _crazy_ or _fake_ or both, except, of course, for Jeff. 

“Do you remember the Draft?” Mike asks him. His eyes are closed, his head starting to loll to the side. He can _feel_ Jeff smiling against his skin. “That was the day I – ” 

He’s cut off by the distinct and heavy clomp of boots moving across the floorboards upstairs. When he opens his eyes, Julia is standing in front of them. “Run!” she calls out. 

They scatter. 

There are bolt holes and passageways riddled into the building. He and Jeff sprint down a passage that connects this basement to the basement of the next building, following just behind Julia. Mike catches sight of Loops out of the corner of his eye. Julia skids to a stop in front of a ladder. “You can get out this way,” she calls. 

Mike looks wildly at Jeff, “Your shoulder – ” 

But Julia’s shoving at him, “Go! Better to split up anyway, I’ll take Jeff with me – I know another way out.” 

Jeff’s eyes are wide, dark. He squeezes Mike’s hand, then slips free, and he and Julia are running. Gone. 

“Climb!” Loops yells at him. So Mike climbs. He and Loops emerge in a dusty shell of a house, and then they burst out onto the streets, and they’re _running._ They sprint down the streets till Mike can feel the acid burn in his legs, a vicious cramp in his side. They careen around corners, sliding on the wet pavement, taking rights and lefts at random at first, and then, when there’s no pursuit, with more intent, working their way toward Wachovia. 

Mike is still panting when they make it back up to Loops’ room, his heart hammering inside his chest. Loops closes the door shut behind them and spins around, puts his back to it. His eyes are huge and there’s sweat running down his face. His eyes lock with Mike’s and for a second they’re both silent, breathing harshly, trying to recover their wind. 

Abruptly, Loops face splits in a wide grin, and then he’s laughing. And Mike’s laughing too – the rush of adrenaline making everything go sharp at the edges, making his hands tremble, and his head feel oddly disconnected from his body. He fumbles his phone trying to get it out, and that just makes Loops laugh harder. 

And he’s _pretty_ sure, but he needs to be totally sure. He texts Jeff: _you ok?_

His phone beeps a moment later: _fine. with j. laying low till they lift curfew tomorrow. you?_

_loops and i made it back,_ he sends, and something unclutches inside his chest. He drops down onto the edge of Loops’ bed, somewhere between exhaustion and post-battle euphoria. 

Loops gives him an odd, knowing look. “Cartsy okay?” 

Mike looks up from his phone. “Yeah. He’s with Julia; he’ll be back tomorrow.” 

Loops nods. “Good.” He pushes off the door and pulls his sweater and t-shirt over his head and off all in one motion, and wipes the sweat off his face on the inside-out garment before tossing it away towards the corner of the room. 

And maybe it’s the adrenaline rush kicking his libido into overdrive, or maybe it’s just that Loops is ripped to the point of looking sculpted, but Mike gets sort of mesmerized by the twist and flex of abdominal muscles that go into the movement. When he looks up, Loops is smirking, and Mike’s been well and truly caught. He flushes and looks away. 

“You like looking, Richie?” Loops slides his hands down onto his belt buckle, and Mike has to drag his eyes away _again._

“I should go.” Mike stands up. 

Loops crowds into his space, blocking him when Mike tries to step around him. Mike keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “Loops. Come on. Stop being a dick.” 

“But you _like_ dicks.” Loops’ voice is teasing. “It’s okay, Richie, I get it. There are worse things in the world than liking dick.” 

Mike glares. That’s not – that’s not the kind of thing you’re supposed to _say._ Not out loud. He can feel his face heating up further. “Yeah. Well. You don’t.” 

“Naw.” Loops shakes his head. “I don’t. But I like how fucking hard you’re getting looking at me.” He takes another step towards Mike, so close Mike’s going to have to physically move him out of the way in order to leave. 

Mike puts his hands on Loops’ shoulders to shove him back. But Loops just closes his eyes and _hums._ And that’s pretty much the end of Plan A. 

Instead, Mike finds himself sliding his hands down, over Loops’ stomach to rest on his hips. Mike’s breathing speeds up. “Loops… I don’t think – ” Mike swallows and bites his lip. 

Loops lets out a bark of laughter. He rubs his thumb over Mike’s mouth. “You always do that,” he says, “when you see something you want.” 

Mike has to make an effort not to do it again. 

Loops’ gaze goes calculating, moving over Mike’s face. “You tired of telling people what to do, is that it, Richie? You want me to tell you what to do?” 

Mike shakes his head, _no._ But it’s not very convincing, even to him. 

Loop smiles, all innocence and holds his hands up and away. He takes a step back. “All right. There you go. Door’s right there.” 

Instead, Mike takes a step towards him, as if pulled by a string. Loops’ expression goes smug. 

He picks Mike’s hand up and sets it down on his belt buckle. “Take my pants off.” 

_Fuck._ Mike gives him a sharp tug forward by the belt, and while he’s working the buckle, he presses his mouth to Loops. Loops’ eyes go wide and he stiffens for a second, but then he’s going with it. Kissing Mike back. 

When Mike pulls back, Loops says, “So that’s how it goes, huh?” And weirdly Mike feels like _he’s_ the naked one. 

Loops grabs his hips. “Let me fuck you.” 

Mike pulls back. _Too much._ He shakes his head. “I’ll – ” He drops down onto his knees in front of Loops, looks up at him. 

“Yeah.” Loops touches his mouth again. “Yeah, that’ll work.” Then he’s shoving his shorts down and off, while Mike tries to get his own pants open. “Fuck yeah,” Loops says, “jerk off while you’re doing it.” 

Sobriety is just starting to filter in at the edges of his awareness, but Loops hands are in his hair, gripping his neck and there’s no way he’s backing out now. 

 

 

Mike wakes up early. In his own bed. Alone. He stretches an arm out reflexively but the other half of the bed is empty. Jeff isn’t back yet. Mike feels gross. Eyes gummy, mouth dry, stomach sour. He hauls himself into the shower, and as he’s working the shampoo in, he notices his scalp feel tender, sore. Where Loops pulled his hair, he realizes, and has to take a second just to stand there and breathe. 

Later that morning, he gets his last phone call home before the summer. 

“Rough loss, son,” his dad says. “Next year.” 

“Next year,” Mike echoes dully. If they noticed anything weird about the game, they don’t mention it. Mike sighs. “And you guys? How are things at home?” 

There’s a pause. “They’re good, Michael. Things are fine here.” 

Mike frowns, because his Dad never calls him Michael. Has literally _never_ called him Michael. He just doesn’t. “Dad?” 

“Everything’s fine. But I wanted to say, your mother and I know how busy you are with the team. If you couldn’t make it home this summer, we would understand.” It’s outwardly calm, but Mike is starting to pick up on a weird urgency in his dad’s voice. 

He grips the phone tighter. “Of course I’m coming home this summer.” 

“I’m just saying – we would understand. Maybe it would be better for you. For your game, I mean.” There’s a definite strain there. 

“Dad. What – ” 

“I love you, son,” his dad says. “Your mother loves you.” 

“I love you, too,” Mike says, but there’s a click, and the line is dead. He stares at the receiver for a second. _What the fuck._

It takes him two tries to hang it up. An extra second to remember how to get from the office back to his room. 

Jeff is back; he’s in their room when Mike comes in. 

“Hey,” Jeff says. 

Mike jumps a little. He shakes his head. “Sorry I – I’m just a little out of it. You make it in okay?” 

“Yeah. Jules and I holed up in a warehouse overnight. I got back in this morning, no problem. You?” Jeff is studying him, a curious look on his face. 

Mike tries to focus. “Yeah. Um, Loops and I made it back last night. We basically sprinted the whole way home.” 

Jeff is still looking at him oddly. “Mike, are you okay? You look, like, fucking _pale._ ” He moves to put a hand on Mike’s shoulder. 

_Something might be wrong at home._ But if he says it out loud, it’ll be true. 

But then Jeff frowns suddenly. His hand moves, and his fingertips press into the nape of Mike’s neck, and from the sudden flash of pain, Mike can tell he’s got bruises there. Jeff’s gaze flicks over to meet his eyes and his eyebrows draw together. 

Mike swallows. “Loops and I – hooked up.” 

Jeff’s expression darkens for a second, before he covers it with a carefully neutral look. He’s still focused on Mike’s neck. “And he –” Jeff looks up to meet his eyes. “What are you trying to say?” 

Mike’s thrown a little. “I don’t know. I just, I thought I was maybe supposed to tell you.” 

Jeff pulls his hand back sharply. He walks across the room, which doesn’t accomplish much – their room is _tiny._

Mike blinks, purses his lips. “You’re pissed.” 

Jeff shrugs, shoulders tight and angry. “I’m not pissed. Should I be pissed?” But he’s not looking at Mike. 

Mike throws his hands up. “I don’t know, you fuck other people _all the time._ ” And he’s starting to fail at keeping his voice down. 

Jeff turns back around and yeah, he looks angry. “I don’t fuck people we _work_ with. I don’t fuck people we have to see _every day._ ” 

Mike glares back at him. “Yeah? What about Julia? You fuck the _shit_ out of Julia.” 

Jeff’s mouth works before setting into a hard line. “That’s different.” 

“How is that _different?_ ” Mike spits. 

Jeff’s eyes flash. “It’s _different_ because Julia fucks me because she _likes_ me.” Jeff stalks back over and pokes him in the chest. “Whereas Lupul fucked _you_ just to say he did. So that next year, he can say _he fucked the captain of the Orange._ ” 

Mike swats his hand away. _“Fuck you.”_

“It’s just sort of _sad,_ Mike.” His voice is mocking. 

“Fuck you. Get out – get away from me!” He shoves hard at Jeff. 

Jeff falls back a step, then stops. “This is supposed to be _my_ fucking room – _you_ get out!” They’re both yelling now. 

“Fine!” Mike stalks out, slamming the door behind him. He blows past a couple of guys who basically plaster themselves to the wall in an effort to get out of his way. 

 

 

He ends up in the trainer’s lounge, sitting at the table in one of the rigid, straight-backed chairs. There’s someone’s discarded baseball cap on the table in front of him and he fiddles with it, running his fingers over the unfamiliar logo. 

The end of their season – his parents – _Jeff_ – his vision is going blurry – and it’s stupid, because there is absolutely _nothing_ productive about sitting here, _crying_ – but it’s too much. Too much for one day. Too much for one weekend. 

There’s movement at the end of the room. Mike looks up and then quickly glances away, because it’s _Coach Stevens_ , and Mike is going to catch _so much shit_ for this. He flips the ball cap on and pulls the brim down as far as it’ll go. He waits, because it’s not as if he hasn’t been a shithead to Stevens all fucking season. This is probably the sort of opportunity he’s been _dreaming_ about. 

But Stevens just leans against the table next to where Mike’s sitting, puts one hand on Mike’s shoulder, and doesn’t say anything at all. Mike’s got a hand up, trying to shelter as much of his face as possible, but his shoulders are sort of shaking and there’s no hiding that. 

Stevens still doesn’t say anything – not while Mike gets himself under control. Not even when Mike tugs the collar of his shirt up to wipe his face off. Mike clears his throat awkwardly. 

“Nice hat,” Stevens finally says. He takes his hand away. 

Mike shrugs. “It’s not mine.” 

“I know. Do you know what team it’s for?” 

After a second’s hesitation. Mike pulls it off, studies the logo on the front. A black circle with what almost looks like a wing stretching out behind it. An orange dot in the middle. Mike shakes his head, still not ready to look up at Stevens. “No.” 

“The Flyers. They used to play here,” Stevens says. He pushes off the table, heading for the door. “Keep it.” 

 

 

That night, Mike climbs into bed in _his_ room. Meaning the mostly empty room that has almost none of his stuff in it. A room he hasn’t spent more than a handful of nights in all year. Alone. 

 

 

And that is what saves them. 

 

 

He’s awakened early – someone is pounding at the door, the one that leads out to the hallway. Mike pushes himself out of bed. On his way out he notices the door to Jeff’s room is standing open. It’s empty. He blinks sleep out of his eyes, pushes the door to the hallway open. 

There’s a man standing there, dressed in the black robes of a Morality Officer. “Good morning!” he says brightly, as though it’s a good thing to be pounding on Mike’s door before the sun’s fully up. “May I come in?” 

Mike blinks. 

“I’m the new Counselor assigned to players’ quarters, and I’m introducing myself around this morning.” He steps inside, brushing past Mike. “Is this your room?” 

Mike nods back towards the room he just left. “That’s my room.” He gestures stiffly at the other. “ _That_ is Jeff Carter’s room.” 

The Morality Officer nods and walks into Mike’s room. Mike watches his eyes flick over the nearly empty shelves, the clean desk. They settle on the rucked up sheets. Then he turns and strides past Mike into Jeff’s room. Mike watches him pick up objects at random, set them back down. Jeff’s watch on the nightstand. Gauze dressing on the desk. _Mike’s_ old practice stick, taking up space in the corner. He looks at the bed, and then at Mike. 

Mike makes himself hold his gaze. He can’t know anything. Not by looking, Mike reminds himself. 

“Your friend’s a lot messier than you are,” the Morality Office says finally. 

Mike shrugs. 

“I’d better go. Lots of other players to introduce myself to.” He smiles. 

 

 

 

 

The Union slams its gates down around them. That afternoon it’s announced that all summer travel is canceled. That all phone privileges are canceled. There’s a lot of grumbling. 

“I don’t see why a _fuel shortage_ would make them cancel phone calls,” Upshall mutters. 

Mike shrugs. He’s starting to feel sort of numb to everything. 

Upshall shakes his head. “Game one’s on tonight. I can’t decide if want the Black & Gold to win, so we can say we at least lost to the champs, or if I want the Red & White to cream the living shit out of them. You’re going to watch with us, right?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Mike’s thinking about Crosby’s robotic face. He gets it now. He just wonders what they did to _him._

 

 

Jeff is scarce until game time. He slinks into the lounge just as play as starting, and Mike steadfastly makes himself _not_ look over. 

They go three days like that: Jeff mostly not around; Mike leaving the room whenever Jeff does happen to wander in. Not talking. Mike drifts around in a haze, watching the games when they’re on, waiting for Stevens, or _someone,_ to figure out what to do with them over the summer. 

Mike blinks, he’s standing in front of one of the kitchen cabinets, plate in hand, but he can’t remember for the life of him what he was getting it out for. 

Jeff walks in and stops short in the doorway. Mike slides the plate back into place and walks out. 

Loops calls out to him in the hallway. Mike grits his teeth because he’s sort of been avoiding Loops, too. Maybe Jeff is full of shit, or maybe what he said is _true_ – either way, Mike doesn’t really want to deal with it. He keeps walking. 

“Richie.” Loops is following him down the hall, insistent. 

Mike finally stops, turns, and regards Loops with a raised eyebrow. 

Loops folds his arms across his chest. “I didn’t know, okay? I didn’t think it was going to be a big deal.” 

“It’s _not_ a big deal.” Mike summons up his best glare. 

Loops holds out placating hands. “Okay, okay.” 

Mike walks away. 

 

 

That night Mike lies on his back, sleepless and staring upwards. This is officially the longest stretch he’s slept alone since last summer. In the dark, he makes the ceiling of the room into a map. _If_ he could find a ride, _if_ he could get out of the Orange, it would still take almost two days of solid traveling to get home. He brings one hand up to finger his PerT tags – then there are the border crossings: after the Orange, he’d have to get across the Black  & Gold. From the Black & Gold he’d have to get into the Silver & Blue. _If_ he got across the Silver  & Blue, he could cut up through the Red, into the Red & Green, and finally north to the Blue & White. 

From there it’s only four hours up shitty, crumbling roads to get home, if he can get ahold of something with four wheel drive. Fuck it, that’ll be the easy part. 

Mike chews on his knuckle, thinking. Maybe it would be easier to cut north first, up through the Navy & Gold? Fewer border crossings, but he’d have to get across the lake. There must be ways to do that. Julia would know. But, fuck, then he’d have to _talk_ to Julia. If Jeff’s told her about what went down, she probably hates him now. 

And anyway, what the fuck is going on in the Blue & White that his parents don’t want him around for? What could be so bad that it’s stretching all the way out west, affecting his tiny little town? 

The door to his room creaks open, derailing his thoughts. The silhouette in the doorway is obnoxiously tall, and really, there’s only one person it could be anyway. 

“Mike?” Jeff says. 

Mike takes his knuckle out of his mouth, keeps his eyes focused upwards. “I’m sleeping. Go away.” 

Jeff doesn’t, of course. Just walks in like he’s been invited and sits down on the edge of Mike’s bed. Mike rolls onto his side, facing away. 

_“Mike,”_ Jeff says again, and he sets a hand down on Mike’s arm. 

Mike wonders if it would seem petty to shrug it off. And then he does it anyway. 

Jeff just puts it back. Squeezes his bicep. Mike gets a fresh wave of anger, and abruptly he’s turning over – shoving Jeff’s hand away, shoving at his chest – 

Jeff grabs ahold of his wrist, and they scrabble against each other for a minute. Mike’s stronger, but Jeff has _reach_ on him. Plus there’s the fact that Mike’s not really sure he could bring himself to hit Jeff, not even now. Even as Mike flails, Jeff’s wrapping himself around Mike, arms encircling his torso, throwing a leg over his, and using the fact that Mike’s half-twisted in the blankets to his advantage. Mike stills, makes himself go limp. “Let me go. I’ll kick your ass,” he warns. “You know I can.” 

Jeff’s breathing is harsh in his ear. “I would rather you hit me than keep fucking ignoring me.” 

Mike twists and Jeff tightens his grip further. When Mike doesn’t say anything, Jeff sighs. “Fine. Then you can at least listen to me.” And since his mouth is inches from Mike’s ear, he doesn’t really have a choice. 

But Jeff just signs again. “You know, I’m not even really sure what we’re fighting about?” 

The muscles in Mike’s shoulders bunch as he squirms. “You _asshole,_ you said – ” 

“I know what I said, okay? I’m sorry.” Jeff’s grip on his wrist tightens. “I’m sorry I said that. It’s just – Mike, you looked _so_ upset, and I thought – I don’t know what I thought. I thought maybe Loops did something you didn’t like, and I was mad at him, and scared, and mad at _you,_ too, because – okay, yeah, because I didn’t _like_ that you and him…” 

Jeff trails off and then he swallows and presses on in a nervous rush, “I _know_ it’s hypocritical. And I’ll – if you want me to stop sleeping with Julia, I will, okay? Because _this_ matters to me. It matters a whole fucking lot, and I can’t do this without you. I _can’t._ ” 

Mike’s eyes are sort of stinging, and he can hardly _breathe,_ much less talk. He swallows. “It wasn’t – Loops didn’t – I wasn’t upset about anything Loops did,” he finally gets out. Jeff is silent next to him, waiting. Mike closes his eyes. “Sunday was my last phone call home. To my parents.” 

“Oh shit, that’s right,” Jeff murmurs. “Is everything okay? How are they doing?” 

Mike shrugs, as much as he can with his arms pinned in the tight circle of Jeff’s grip. He’s shaking his head before he realizes he’s answering. “Something’s _wrong_ – ” and his voice gives out. 

Jeff’s grip abruptly goes from _clenching_ to _holding._ But it hardly matters, because Mike is busy trying to get his own arms around Jeff, and it’s like the sheer terror he’s been holding at bay is unfolding in broad, waves through his chest. 

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” 

“I _don’t know._ They couldn’t tell me.” He presses his face into Jeff’s neck. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to get there.” 

“Mike – ” 

“I _know,_ but – ” Mike can feel the hot edge of panic in his chest. “I don’t know what else to do.” 

 

 

 

 

Nothing, it turns out. He can do jack shit. Nothing’s moving between the provinces. Not people. Not information. Nothing. 

That summer they spend the days carrying on like everything’s normal. Coach still runs practice, albeit lighter than usual. They still train. They watch a lot of shitty movies. When their fucking Morality Officer/babysitter isn’t around, they play a lot of cards. And Mike does his best to shove all the shit he can’t do anything about to the back of his mind. 

At night, when everything’s still except his racing thoughts, he _clings_ to Jeff, in a way that would be embarrassing if Jeff ever brought it up. But he doesn’t. 

Jeff doesn’t make him talk about it, but he does stick close. Mike hasn’t felt like going out, hasn’t wanted to see Julia, and if Jeff has, he hasn’t said anything to Mike about it. He doesn’t bring her up at all. Instead, he lets Mike take them on long, rambling walks in the park adjacent to the ice center. 

The trails are all overgrown, years of neglect resulting in branches to duck, thorns to catch on, and whole sections lost to impassible brambles, but there are miles of them. Eventually though, Mike always takes them down to the shores of the lake. 

The shadows are getting longer, and the light’s fading as Mike half-slides down the hill, and cuts into a sheltered spot hidden by low-hanging trees. 

He settles on the ground, and Jeff takes the spot next to him. The lake’s a murky sort of green, choked with duckweed, and surrounded by sawgrass. “Does it look like your lake?” Jeff asks. 

Mike laughs a little bitterly. _This_ lake is tiny, hardly more than an algae-covered pond. _This_ lake you can see across. In his head, Mike can picture _his_ lake – broad and clear and stretching out to the horizon. The water cold and sharp. _This_ lake smells of stagnancy and vegetal decay . “Not exactly.” 

Jeff’s shoulders hunch and he starts picking aimlessly at the rocks by their feet. 

And Mike is a jerk, because clearly Jeff is _trying._ “It’s just… smaller,” he amends in a gentler tone. He knocks his knee into Jeff’s. 

Jeff pauses and looks over at him. Half his mouth twists up into a smile. Then it fades. He looks down at the rocky ground. “I know you don’t like it here.” Jeff is carefully pushing the pebbles into piles. “And I know you’re stuck here longer because of me.” 

Mike looks over in surprise. Jeff picks up a small, round stone and studies it carefully. “That’s the deal you worked with Holmgren, right? You’d stay longer, if I get my agency?” 

“Jeff – ” Mike doesn’t really know what to say. 

Jeff shrugs, then darts a careful glance at Mike. “I’m really glad though, that you’re here with me.” 

“Jeff, I – ” he tugs at Jeff’s sleeve until Jeff obliges and scoots closer to him. Jeff’s holding himself carefully, tightly, still – like he thinks _Mike_ might be mad at _him,_ and that’s just _ridiculous._ Because, no, he _doesn’t_ want to be here, but even if he could leave tomorrow, he wouldn’t want to go _alone,_ not if it meant leaving Jeff here. 

And _Mike’s_ the one that signed them up for this. Would sign himself up for it over and over again, if it meant getting to stay close to Jeff. He’s seized by an urgent need to make Jeff _understand,_ and his words pile over top of each other. “It doesn’t matter how long I signed for, I wouldn’t have made it this far without you. I know that the guys, Julia, that _I_ joke that I take care of you, but they’re got it _backwards_ or maybe just half right – ” His words are coming in a tumble, a rush, maybe only half-coherent, “Because without you I’d probably still be with the Phantoms, or have been sent down, or wouldn’t have gotten drafted _at all_ – because I wouldn’t play half so good if I wasn’t trying so hard to impress _you_ – ” 

Jeff kisses him. It’s shocking for a moment, actually. The sudden quiet, and Mike can’t remember them ever having kissed outside. 

Jeff’s hands cup his face. Mike’s mouth opens under his, and then Jeff’s moving over him, pressing him back against the ground. They’re making out, wet and messy, and Mike gets his hands up under Jeff’s t-shirt, sliding over his skin, pulling him closer. 

Mike’s rolling his hips up, against Jeff, and Jeff reaches down and presses his palm flat onto the front of Mike’s pants, lets Mike grind against it. Mike’s head thumps back against the ground, and Jeff follows him down, still kissing him, until Mike is just panting shallow gasps against his mouth. 

Jeff rocks back a little and gets his fingers on Mike’s fly and then he pauses and looks up. “Yeah? Here?” he’s flushed, his mouth slick and swollen. 

Right, like Mike could _walk_ anywhere like this. “Hell, yeah,” Mike answers him. 

Jeff grins, looking mischievous, and gets both of their pants undone. Mike loops his arms around Jeff and presses them together. Jeff is kissing him, his hand between them, teasing both of them. Mike’s moaning into his mouth, and he has to break away to breath. He closes his hand around Jeff’s dick, and Jeff is gasping, panting into his neck. 

“Mike,” he’s saying, his eyes squeezed shut. Mike works him faster, gets his mouth back on Jeff’s, until Jeff’s too lost in it to kiss him back. Jeff tenses against him, and then he’s coming, shaking and shivering above Mike, breath coming in harsh gasps. 

Jeff drops down onto his elbows, his weight half on, half off Mike, his breathing gradually slowing, still pressed up against Mike, _whole_ and safe and _his._ Mike’s so hard it almost _hurts._ He rocks his hips against Jeff. Jeff grins and his eyes slit open. He pulls back a bit, slides his hand slowly up Mike’s dick. 

He’s watching Mike watch him, and then Jeff works his free hand through the slick mess he left and he slides a finger into Mike, and jerks him off, and Mike is just _gone._

When he comes back to himself, Jeff is murmuring to him. Kissing him. Mike pulls him close, holds him there. 

They clean themselves up the best they can. Mike’s shirt is a total write-off, so he’s wearing Jeff’s sweater against his skin. He picks a leaf out of Jeff’s hair. Really, it’d be sort of obvious to anyone who’s looking. They set off towards Wachovia. Jeff holds his hand till the last minute. 

 

 

 

 

Towards the end of the summer, Gagne asks, “You guys seen Upshall?” He’s got one hand twisting nervously in his PerT tags, the other gripping the door frame he’s leaning through. 

Mike frowns. “Not since yesterday. Why? What’s up?” He looks at his cards again and ups his bet. 

Gagne’s mouth twists. “His room’s all cleaned out.” 

“Fucking Christ,” Mike mutters. Because Upshall was doing great. Upshall was putting up points last year. Why the fuck would they dump Upshall? 

He tracks down Coach after their next practice. 

“Richards?” He’s sitting at his desk. 

Mike pauses. Stevens has not – _thank god_ – ever brought up That Time Mike Utterly Humiliated Himself, which, in hindsight, was probably at least as painfully awkward for Coach as it was for Mike. In return, Mike has tried to be less of a dick. But, seriously. 

“Upshall?” Mike asks. “Seriously?” 

Stevens sighs. 

Mike helps himself to the seat across from Coach. “He was doing so _good_ – ” 

“It wasn’t my decision,” Coach cuts him off. 

Mike blinks, caught off guard by the admission. “What?” 

“It wasn’t my decision,” Coach repeats. There’s wry twist to his mouth. “And, no, I don’t know where they sent him. And no, I’m not happy about it.” 

Mike can feel his mouth hanging open, so he shuts it. Coach is usually all about presenting the united front. This is – this is unprecedented. “You – really?” 

Coach looks at him a moment, and then he gets up and closes the door to his office. When he returns to his chair he gives Mike a sharp look. “Richards, working with management sometimes means putting up with decisions you don’t like. Working within the constraints you’re set. You’re likely going to be wearing the ‘C’ next year. It would behoove you to learn that. And I’ll tell you one more thing that doesn’t leave this room: Paul Holmgren would walk over the bodies of his own grandparents to protect himself, so you watch yourself around him. You got that?” 

Mike nods. What else is there to say? 

They lose other players over the summer: Knuble. Umberger. Sbisa. Niitty. _Loops._

And if Mike is careful, if he watches closely, he can tell which ones Coach is unhappy about. Which ones he didn’t see coming. They don’t ever really talk about it again, except briefly, in passing right after Loops goes. Coach says quietly, “he’s going to a solid team. He’ll do well there.” 

“You know where he’s going?” Mike’s surprised. 

Stevens nods. “The Gold. We picked up Pronger in exchange for him. He’s going to be a big add to our D.” 

He’s going to be a _huge_ add to their D. Mike makes himself nod, and reminds himself that he’s safe. That Jeff is _safe._ That they’re not going anywhere. And as far as the strangers filtering in, well he’s been through this before, and that half-step back of perspective makes all the difference. They’ll still be a team when the season starts. They’ll still be _his_ team, because he’ll make them. 

 

 

He starts making them his team in Dev Camp – there are fewer rookies this year, but the one’s they do get are _green._ They look at him wide-eyed as Stevens has him run through demonstrations of the drills. Mike works to make every move look perfect, look easy. Then they’ll skate for a while, Stevens calling out instruction, Mike adjusting their technique, and then they’re off the ice and the _next group_ comes on, and Mike has to start from the top all over again. 

He tries to wipe the sweat off his face covertly. He’s going to _hurt_ tomorrow. 

Somewhere out there, Jeff is doing the same thing off-ice – introducing the new guys to the training staff, the gym, the weight room. During the day, they pass each other in the halls with a wordless fist bump and at night they collapse into bed too tired to do anything but curl around each other and sleep. 

Mike is demo’ing 2-on-1s today, moving up the ice, and his rookie partner wings the cross-ice pass wide, sending it past Mike. Mike groans inwardly, but gamely sets off after it – but the rookie playing D _swoops_ in, beating him to the puck and dances off with it. “Have to be faster than that, old man,” he calls – and wrists the puck home into the empty net at the opposite end. Which is totally not even the _point_ of the drill. 

Mike stops short next to Stevens, who’s mouth is twitching suspiciously. “Did he just call me _old?_ ” 

Stevens looks at him, amusement clear on his face. “Actually, Richards, I think he called you _slow._ ” 

“Oh, hell no.” He glares. “Coach, please tell me we’re running checking drills next.” 

 

 

That night, Jeff laughs when he tells the story. “So what’d you do?” He’s stretched out, hands behind his head. 

Mike sits down on the bed next to him. “Made sure I was matched up against him the next time he went out and knocked him on his ass. Obviously.” 

Jeff pats his leg. “Nice, Mike. Very mature.” He switches to running his hand up and down Mike’s thigh. Mike leans down to kiss him. 

After a moment, Jeff peers up at him sheepishly. “I am so fucking tired.” 

“Oh, thank god.” Mike pulls back “I was afraid you wanted to _do_ something.” 

Jeff snorts. “Sleep?” 

“Sleep.” 

They have just turned the light off, Mike has _just_ laid his head down, when there’s a light tap at the door, and a cautious voice says, “Richie?” 

Mike groans. 

“Shh.” Jeff pushes himself upright. “I got it. Whatever it is, I’ll deal with it – sleep.” 

And Mike thinks, _thank god,_ because whatever it is, Jeff _can_ deal with it. He’s asleep before he can even hear Jeff leave. 

He wakes up to the sound of the door opening. Voices in the hallway. He rolls over, waits for Jeff. 

But Jeff doesn’t materialize. Mike rubs his face, squints at the clock. It’s fucking late – or early, technically. He can make out the rise and fall of conversation nearby. It’s hushed, indistinct, but one of the voices is definitely Jeff’s. “Jeff?” 

There’s a pause, he hears Jeff say something, and then Jeff’s coming in to their room, shutting the door behind him. “Just a heads up,” Jeff mutters, sliding into place next to Mike, “there’s a rookie in our spare room.” 

He frowns at Jeff. “Seriously?” 

Jeff shrugs. “Nightmares. Roll with it.” 

_“Seriously?”_

 

 

Of course it _would_ be the rookie who mouthed off to Mike in practice. Who thinks Mike is _old_ and _slow,_ but who also apparently screamed so loud in his sleep that one of his peers came up to fetch _Mike._

The stare at each other awkwardly over breakfast, Voight listlessly pushing his cereal around the bowl, Mike frowning into his coffee, waiting to feel awake. 

“Sorry,” Voight mutters into the table. 

It’s unclear if it’s, _sorry for calling you old,_ or _sorry for taking away from your precious, precious sleep,_ or _sorry for cockblocking your chance at morning sex._ Mike grunts. 

“You wanted them,” Jeff teases him later. “Now they’re yours.” 

 

 

 

 

Coach is right, about the ‘C’. 

Mike is named Captain at the start of the season. Jeff gets the ‘A’, and Mike realizes with a start that they are, in fact, among the most senior members of the team, in terms of longevity with the Orange, if not in age. 

“Just Gagne,” Jeff says when Mike brings it up. “Gags has been around forever.” 

Christ, when did that happen? 

 

 

Despite the uneasy summer, the season starts more or less normally. Although the Union is tightening its grasp around the games in ways that make Mike twitch if he thinks about it too hard. Each game now starts with a speech giving praise to their local leaders, they implement a handshake line at the end of each game to promote “unity”, and after that they’re all required to stay on the ice for a prayer. The schedule is amended too – with fewer games against the western conference teams, and more within their own division. 

But once the season _really_ kicks into gear, he doesn’t have time to worry about it. On the ice, they play hockey. Off the ice, Mike suddenly has about a trillion more things to do, because, it turns out, being pushy enough to _act_ like the Captain whenever he felt like it is different from actually _being_ Captain. When you actually _are_ the Captain, you have to be the Captain _all the time._

Like now. 

Mike leans forward into the microphone. “Um. Well, we played our hardest, but it wasn’t enough. The Red & Navy has some really good skaters, and we just – weren’t as good as them tonight.” 

The reporter purses her lips. She reminds him of the women who work in the Orange’s PR department: beautiful and poised and _terrifying._ “Can you elaborate on what you plan to do differently next game to break your losing streak? Do you think the club is in trouble?” 

Mike frowns. Three games is hardly a _streak._ And never mind that they _won_ the three games before that. Never mind that Mike scored his second ever hat trick last week. Never mind that most of these guys have only been playing together for less than a month. “No, I don’t think the club is in trouble. I think, if anything, we just need a little more to time to, uh, gel as a team.” 

She scrunches her nose at what she obviously thinks is an inferior quote. “So you’re happy with how the team is playing?” 

“I mean – I think we can always do _better._ There’s no such thing as a perfect game. But we’re doing well.” 

 

 

Jeff reads his interview over breakfast the next day. “You sound like an idiot. And smug. How did you manage to sound both dumb _and_ condescending?” His foot taps Mike leg under the table, softening his words. 

Mike scowls. “It’s not _easy,_ you know.” Anyway, the paper only sort of resembles what he said. “There are only so many ways to say _sorry for losing._ ” 

“You have to do any more?” Jeff reaches across the table in a blatant attempt to steal food off Mike’s plate. 

Mike slaps his hand away. “Yeah. One more, after practice this afternoon.” 

“Mention Gee in this one.” 

“Yeah?” Mike looks across the room to where Giroux is sitting. 

Jeff shrugs. “It was his first goal of the season. Plus,” Jeff gestures with his mug, “he’s going to do big things this year.” 

Mike grins. Jeff is still unofficially in charge of the rookies, and even if Giroux had a few games last season, he’s still a rookie to Jeff, and probably one of his favorites, even if he’d never admit it. “What makes you so sure?” 

“Because he’s like the best parts of you and me, combined. Right Gee?” Jeff raises his voice for the last. 

Giroux’s head pops up and even though it’s clear he has no idea what’s being discussed, he says, “Right, boss.” 

Jeff inclines his head. Mike snorts and gets kicked under the table for it. 

 

 

The horn to end the game sounds and they’ve just finished cleaning the floor with the Red & Silver. _Ha, take that Reporter,_ Mike thinks. He taps Hartsy and Gee with his stick – they did good tonight – and skates off to congratulate Emery, their new netminder. 

They line up for handshakes and Mike gets an odd twist in his stomach – there’s still not much news passing between the provinces, and the handshake line is really the only time they’re allowed to _say_ anything to the other team. These days, instead of _good game,_ it’s: 

_Have you seen_

_Have you heard_

Or sometimes, _There you are! We were worried._

It’s an odd way to end the game, and sure enough – the Red & Silver’s alternate captain grips Mike’s forearm tight. “I’m looking for my brother,” he says simply. He stares down at Mike like it’s the most important question in the world. 

“There’s a Staal playing for the Red & Blue, and one with the Black & Gold,” Mike mutters softly. 

Staal just shakes his head, frustrated. “No, I’m looking for the youngest. Looks like the one on the Red & Blue? Plays on the right?” 

“Sorry,” Mike says, and pushes on. _Staal._ He adds it to his list of names to watch out for. 

 

 

They go on a nice run in November, racking up some serious points. But then Emery goes down, and their D just isn’t there, and Jeff’s stick goes cold, and they just _really_ start sucking. 

It blows, because Mike knows how Holmgren reacts to losing stretches like this, and it usually involves shipping people. He fucking hates having to look around and wonder. Is it going to be Briere? Timo? Carle? And even if he _knows_ management couldn’t ship him or Jeff, even if they wanted to, he still hates hearing the media call for it. 

But in the end, it isn’t any of his guys. 

It’s Stevens. 

On Thursday they hosted the Blue & Green (3-0, them, Mike nursing a sore jaw after his annual dance with Bieksa, fuck his life). 

By Saturday morning practice, they’re being screamed at by a round-faced man Mike vaguely recognizes from seeing him behind the Red & Silver bench. And, _great,_ there’s a real selling point. 

_What the holy fuck?_ Hartsy mouths at him. Mike just shakes his head. 

Before their game that evening, the room is quiet, subdued. Some of the younger guys are casting him anxious glances. Next to him, Jeff bumps their knees together. “Most of these guys weren’t around when Stevens replaced Hitchcock. This is weird for them. You should say something.” 

Mike rubs a hand across his face. “Maybe if we’d played better, Stevens would still have a job.” 

“Yeah, that is exactly what you should _not_ say,” Jeff snaps. 

Mike glares at him. Then he sighs and sucks it up. “Alright boys – it’s just hockey,” he announces, then he waits till the room is looking at him, meeting his eyes. “It’s still hockey. We can play hockey. So let’s get out there and play.” Weak. But it’s better than nothing. 

They lose. They lose _eight fucking two,_ and the Navy doesn’t even have Ovechkin aboard. 

They lose again on Monday, and they _keep_ losing. Emery finally gives up the ghost and Coach Laviolette sticks Boucher in goal. Boucher starts every game with a look of pure terror on his face – and Mike thinks that might actually be pretty justified because the only way they’re going to win is for Boucher to get shut-outs, because they _cannot fucking score._

His and Jeff’s point tally battle has been locked at 26-26 for so long it’s not even funny. 

Midway through December they lose to the Red & Blue at home, and after the game, with microphones shoved in his face, Mike has to bite his tongue to keep from saying that at least they only lost 2-1. Like it’s a _good_ thing. 

His body aches, and there is an ice pick-like pain stabbing into his temple. 

“What do you say in response to comments that the Orange is losing because of immoral off-ice habits?” One reporter asks. 

Mike pauses, one hand rubbing at his forehead. Where is _this_ coming from? “Wait. _What?_ ” 

“Do you give any credence to suggestions that players like Lupul and Upshall were traded because of their impious lifestyles?” The reporter is looking at him, bland and even, like this is a perfectly acceptable question. 

_“No – ”_ Mike manages. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“What about calls that Carter should be traded? Do you agree with them?” 

Mike can feel his face flushing. He bites down hard to keep from spitting out the first response that comes to mind. “You know what?” he says after a pause. “I think we’re done here.” 

 

 

Laviolette has a _system_ – he arranges them into patterns, starts them cycling, keeps their feet moving. He’s passionate, a red-faced, yelling presence on the ice, where Stevens was quiet, aloof. He _cares_ about winning, talks about it with a burning, fervent intensity. Their loses evoke a trembling, sweaty rage in him, as if they lost _on purpose,_ just to disappoint him. 

But he is also strange. He stops practice if he hears one of them swearing, and is just as likely to lecture them about the evils of alcohol as turnovers. He shows up in players’ quarters too – wanders unannounced into the kitchen, or will knock on Mike’s door late in the evening with ideas for plays, for drills. It’s _weird,_ and Mike hates it because it makes Jeff jumpy – there’s an edginess creeping back into him that Mike hasn’t seen in a while. Jeff’s stopped resting his leg against Mike’s when they’re sitting next to each other. Stopped stealing food off his plate. Stopped stretching his arm across the back of Mike’s seat, and all the other gestures where he sprawls into Mike’s space. 

After the second time a knock drags Mike out of bed, they start leaving the bed in the second room deliberately mussed, move some of Mike’s things back over there. 

_And_ Coach is buddy-buddy with the M.O. The pair of them skulk through the corridors together, and the only things worse than that, is seeing them interact with Holmgren, who they treat with fawning deference. 

These days, the M.O. is usually found up in the rookie wing. “Harassing who he probably considers the young and vulnerable,” Jeff muses sourly. 

Mike drops down on the couch next to Jeff. “Clearly he’s never heard JVR chirp a goalie before.” 

Jeff laughs. 

But today, the M.O. is downstairs, and as if summoned by some sort of happiness-killing instinct, the Morality Officer seems to be headed directly towards them, long black robes swishing as he walks. 

As he approaches, Jeff shifts an extra inch away from Mike on the couch, and Mike feels a fresh wash of anger directed at the robed figure. 

“Hi guys,” the M.O. says brightly, because lately he’s been going for the just-your-friendly-neighborhood-keeper vibe. 

Mike nods and tries not to look sullen. 

“I haven’t seen you in our Quiet Reflection sessions, lately.” His eyes are pale, the iris encircled by dark rings. 

_Or ever,_ Mike thinks. “Busy, you know?” Beside him, Jeff nods. 

The M.O. nods solemnly back at them. “You missed some exciting news at the last one.” He sits down on the coffee table across from them, and Jeff grudgingly slides his feet onto the floor. While he’s mid-shift, the M.O. reaches out and grabs Jeff’s PerT tags. 

Jeff freezes. 

Mike gets a hum of adrenaline under his skin. The kind he gets right before he drops his gloves, or lights up his stick. He can see the way the chain is biting into the back of Jeff’s neck. 

“Our blessed leadership has come up with a much improved version of these. The iPerT.” The M.O. smiles. “Soon you won’t have to wear tags at all, it’s just a tiny chip, this big – ” he holds up his free hand, fingers measuring out something the size of a grain of rice. “It’ll be embedded right under the skin.” His eyes have an odd glow. “Think of how great that’ll be!” His gaze flickers back and forth between Mike and Jeff. 

“Great,” Mike echoes numbly. 

The M.O. nods. Smiles. Abruptly he lets go and sits back. “Have a good day, gentlemen!” 

They sit there for a moment in silence. Jeff says, “I think I’m going to be sick.” And then he’s up and sprinting for the bathroom, Mike just behind him. 

He’s not, though. Jeff just stops in the doorway, breathing hard and looking vaguely panicky. Mike reaches out for him, but Jeff holds out a hand in a warding gesture – it’s shaking slightly. “They can’t, Mike. I’ll _die._ I – ” He breaks off. 

_Out,_ Mike thinks. Everything is pointing towards _Get Out Now._

They’re going to need help. 

 

 

Julia’s not re-building, _per se._ But she is devising _something,_ and she directs them to row house in Fairhill. They bus as far as they dare – the PerT tags register on the bus doors, after all – and walk the rest of the way. 

The streets are piled with old snow – stained and gray and studded with trash. There’s no one outside, but a couple times Mike catches window blinds twitching as they walk past. He pulls his hat down more firmly on his head, feeling conspicuous. 

“I don’t think they’re hockey fans,” Jeff mutters, casting him a sidelong glance. 

“ _No one_ is a fan of our hockey team right now.” 

 

 

Julia answers their knock. _“Mike,”_ she says and pulls him into a gentle hug. Mike’s arms come up around her and his throat is suddenly tight. He wasn’t exactly sure how it would feel to see her again, but he gets a warm rush of affection. She feels small and fragile against him. Then she grabs Jeff, and Mike watches Jeff’s throat work as he holds her, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. All three of them have been busy, and he knows Jeff hasn’t been out to see her – not since the night of the raid, but Mike doesn’t actually know, he realizes, if they’ve been talking. Much. At all. She pulls back and touches Jeff’s face. Jeff covers her hand with his, and then he looks up at Mike, an expression of guilt and worry flashing over his face. 

Mike feels like a dick. 

“It’s been too long,” Julia says simply. To both of them. 

She gives them the grand tour – not that there’s much to see. Stockpiles of canned food. Cots laid out in all the rooms. It’s a way station really, for those who are still trying to move between the provinces, a crash pad for those evading arrest. Mike eyes the stash of first aid supplies warily. No one is throwing parties here, that’s for sure. “That’s about it, really,” she says, hugging her arms to her chest. “We’re just trying to stay afloat at this point.” She looks tired. She looks _exhausted._

Jeff reaches a hand out to her and then freezes, second guessing himself again and looking at Mike. _Right Richards,_ Mike tells himself, _time to stop being an asshole about all this._ He puts an arm around Julia, takes Jeff’s hand in his and leads them both to the couch. He settles Julia between them. And when Jeff takes her hand, Mike makes sure to catch his eye and give him a small smile. 

“So, what brings you out?” She looks between them. 

Jeff says, “What do you know about the iPerTs?” Right at the same moment Mike says, “We need to get out of here.” 

Jeff leans forward to stare at him. _“What?”_

Mike grinds his teeth. “We keep losing, they’re going to blow up the team, _again._ They’ve already taken over our living quarters, we wait any longer they’re going to be in our _bedroom._ They want to put trackers _under our skin._ ” Jeff winces at that. Mike turns to Julia. “And something is _wrong_ – back home in the Blue  & White, and I can’t – I can’t keep doing this, not for another _ten years._ ” 

She pulls his head down onto her shoulder. “Oh, Mike – ” 

Mike closes his eyes. He feels Jeff’s hand settle on his arm. 

“Mike,” she says again, “I don’t think you realize how _bad_ it is out there.” 

“I – ” Mike breaks off when the front door swings open. 

Julia jumps up as a man stumbles in. “ _Don,_ I thought I said I didn’t want you around today – ” 

When he turns to face them, the front of his shirt is covered in blood. “Elizabeth,” he says shortly. “It didn’t go well – she’s bleeding pretty bad.” 

“Fuck,” Julia replies, flat, inflectionless. And then she’s up and grabbing a bag – tossing supplies into it. She pauses by the door. “I’m sorry,” she tells Mike and Jeff. “I have to go, I’ll – ” 

“Go,” Jeff says. “We’ll come back.” And then she’s gone. 

Jeff looks at Mike. Mike is watching _Don_ move around the room. He strips off his bloodied shirt. He’s wiry, torso scrawled with tattoos: a dove, a portrait of an old-fashioned looking woman in pince-nez spectacles, an encircled A. The telltale paired burn marks of Taser scars litter the skin high on his back and side. Don pulls a hoodie on, zipping it up over his skin. 

He looks at them skeptically and wipes his nose on his sleeve. 

“We should go,” Jeff says. 

Mike nods, and he’s going for his coat when Don says, “Hey. Wait. You guys are the _hockey players,_ aren’t you?” 

They both freeze. 

He’s pointing at them and nodding. “Yeah, yeah. Jules _said_ something about you guys.” He reaches out towards Jeff, and Mike inserts himself between them. 

“Easy,” Don says, holding up both hands. He pushes a strand of greasy hair back from his face. “I just want to talk.” 

“We should really _go,_ ” Mike reiterates. 

“Wait.” Don is looking at them with an intensity Mike is coming to associate with True Believers, one that’s creepy no matter which side it’s coming from. “You guys are going to want to hear this.” 

Jeff looks at Mike, wary. 

“Just hear me out.” Don waggles his eyebrows. As if that made him _less_ sketchy. 

Mike glances over at Jeff, who just keeps watching him evenly. Mike inclines his head, just a bit. “Okay.” 

Don motions them back towards the couch. He reaches into one of the pockets of his cargo pants, removing a handkerchief. When he unfolds it, it’s filled with tiny, gold, square chips, each no bigger than Mike’s thumbnail. “You know what these are?” 

Don picks one up and holds it up for them to study. “It’s a SIM card. For _long distance._ ” 

Mike exchanges another glance with Jeff and then shakes his head blankly. 

“You put this in a phone,” Don explains, “and you can send unmonitored messages long distance.” 

Mike reaches out to take one, then hesitates. “Like between provinces?” And he can’t help the flutter of _hope_ bouncing in his chest. 

“Think bigger, man.” Don raps on the table. “Like around the _world._ ” He holds one out and drops it into Mike’s waiting palm. “But you know what the hard part is? Getting them to people.” His eyes lock with Mike’s. “And you know who are basically the only people left moving freely between the provinces?” 

All the air goes out of the room. 

_“Hockey players.”_

 

 

They leave Fairhill with a pile of SIM cards tucked into the inside pocket of Mike’s coat. 

By unspoken agreement they don’t talk about it until they’re safely in their room, behind a locked door. Once inside, Jeff holds out his hand, palm up. Mike drops one of the cards into it. 

Jeff turns it over, shaking his head. He looks up at Mike. “You really think these work?” 

That’s the question, isn’t it? Mike takes the card back from him. It’s so _small_ for something with such enormous implications. “I don’t know. But just think if they _did._ Jeff – if I could get one of these to my _parents_ – ” 

“No.” Jeff’s voice is harsh, certain, and it brings Mike up short. “No way. Mike, think about it – what if they _don’t_ work? Or what if they can be _tracked?_ ” 

Mike’s stomach goes cold. 

“Yeah, exactly,” Jeff says. “First we figure out if they work. Then we get them to people we know can handle themselves, people we know are willing to take the risk.” 

Mike frowns. “So who do you think we should give one to first?” 

Jeff just looks at him. “Well, Chernov. And Sharpie, obviously.” Jeff sounds cool, calm. But then he glances down, and when he looks back up, and his eyes are practically glowing. “But, god Mike, if they _do_ work – ” His voice torn between awe and terror, and Mike knows exactly how he feels, because if they do work – that’s _hope,_ that’s a reason to _stay._

 

 

They slip one to Syvret, who’s up and down with the Phantoms all the time. The next time they play the White & Orange, they slip a handful to Simmy, who ended up there this season. Others go out to Knuble, now of the Navy, and other guys they trust. Everyone gets instructed to spread them around to as many teams as possible. 

It’s harder to get them to the West, since their inter-conference match-ups have been cut back so dramatically, but they’re playing the Green next week, and Mike doesn’t know anyone on the team, but Krajicek is willing to vouch for Brad Richards. 

Mike gets good at the handoff, at gripping a player’s palm, leaning in close and whispering in his ear, at keeping his face expressionless, so it looks like he’s saying _good game,_ when what he’s really saying is _here, have a lifeline. You’re not cut off. You’re not alone._

Slowly, the messages start coming in: 

_is anyone there?_

_is this working?_

_FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

_clear copy from the R &W!_

_R &N checking in_

_Way to rep the SE, R &N – S&R here too!_

Mostly, everyone only has one or two numbers, and mostly no one has any names associated with those numbers, so everything gets blindly forwarded out to everyone else. It means messages ping on Mike’s phone sometimes three or four times each, but it’s worth it. It’s so fucking worth it. 

It doesn’t take long for a half-assed system to form, for code to emerge. Soon, Mike’s getting messages like: 

_Phaneuf – D – C#W_

_JStaal – RW – AIS_

Phaneuf. Plays defense. Contact number wanted. 

J Staal. Right Wing. Any information sought. 

And he sends out his own: 

_Eager – LW – AIS; Upshall – RW – AIS_

He keeps the chip separate from the phone, and it can be depressing – how many messages pop up when he slips the chip into place, how many guys are missing. But then sometimes, his phone lights up with messages like: 

_JarStaal playing for the M’s farm team down south. he’s doing good!_

And Mike knows that somewhere out there, at least somebody just got the news he’s waiting for. 

 

 

 

 

Laviolette, he might be crazy, but he knows his hockey. Or maybe it’s just how goddamn happy Mike gets every time he can pass a message on to one of his guys, but they start winning again. They claw their way back into playoff contention. By the end of January they’re the sixth seed. And then Jeff fucking blows up: putting up a goal a game, sometimes two, for five games in a row. Then seven. Then ten. And Mike, because he can’t not, pushes himself to keep up. 

“54-60,” Mike says. “I’m coming for you.” 

“33-27,” Jeff replies, a hint of a smile playing around his mouth. “You keep trying.” 

They falter in March when Jeff’s sidelined for a strain, but it’s still enough for them to roll into the playoffs as the seventh seed. 

 

 

 

 

Quarterfinals. The Red & Black. They’ve dropped one and picked up two, when Mike wakes up to message that’s been sent just to his number: 

_you sure went to an awful lot of trouble just to chirp me, ducks._

“Jeff, Jeff.” Mike pokes him. “Wake up. We got Sharpie.” 

Jeff rubs his eyes, then sits up rapidly. “Really?” 

Mike holds out the phone, and he gets to watch Jeff’s face split in a wide grin. 

_SHARPIE!!! how are you?_ Jeff quickly sends back. 

Jeff puts the phone down on the pillow between them, and they both stare at it until it obligingly buzzes again. 

_things are good here. we got eager! and you better fucking be winning, because we’re gunning for you out here in the west. we're going to go all the way this year._

Jeff laughs aloud when he reads that. “Eager and Sharpie, reunited. Nice.” 

_going to make you eat those words,_ Mike types. _you like it out there? the red?_

_yeah. i met a girl._

There’s a pause. 

_now i know why you had to stare so stupidly at carts all the time._

Mike grabs the phone, blushing, but Jeff just snorts and socks him in the arm. _keep winning,_ he types, _so we can kick your ass later._

_see you fuckers in may!!_ Sharpie sends. 

Game four and Jeff is having a monster game – he’s already registered a goal and an assist, and by early in the third, they’re up 3-1. Brodeur is a fucking badass, but the rest of the Red & Black looks tired, disorganized. Then their captain gets called for holding and Laviolette sends Mike’s power play unit onto the ice. He and Jeff tumble over the boards at the same time, and Mike catches his eye. Jeff grins. It’s going to be a good shift. 

They’re out with Briere, with Timo and Pronger working the points. The R&B is clustered, dull, in front of the net, and say what you will about Coach’s _system,_ but it fucking works on the power play. Timo cracks one in, but Brodeur gets a glove on it. Then they’re shifting, rotating too fast for the Red  & Black to keep up, and Pronger slams one in from the point, puck moving too fast for Mike to track, but Jeff is _on it,_ and gets just enough of his stick on it to direct it home. 4-1, there’s no way the Red  & Black is coming back from that. 

The line comes in for a congratulatory bump, skates down the line gloves out, and Mike has a moment of throat-tightening, chest-squeezing _pride_ at everything they’ve built here. _His_ fucking team. _Their_ fucking team. 

He’s riding high on the endorphins, so maybe that’s why Mike doesn’t actually realize anything is wrong until Jeff goes out for his next shift and comes skating back to the bench almost immediately. “Go, go!” He’s gesturing wildly to Mike, and there’s nothing Mike can do but fling himself over the boards, into play. 

By the time he’s on the bench again, Jeff and the trainer are already headed down the tunnel, and Mike’s still got ten more minutes of hockey to play before he can think about anything else. 

The clock runs out at 4-1; Mike is already trying to press his way through the jam of celebrating players, trying to make it down the tunnel. But Jeff isn’t in the locker room. Mike makes enough of a pest of himself that the trainers finally spill that he’s been sent to the hospital. For surgery. For what is probably a broken _foot._ Mike stills. “How long will he be out?” 

Pete the trainer huffs in irritation. “ _I_ don’t know. That depends on what the doctors find. On how surgery goes.” 

Mike drums his fingers on the table, catches his lip between his teeth. It’s way past curfew now, there’s no way he’s getting out of here tonight, but – “When is the surgery? When will they know?” 

“Nobody tells me shit,” Pete grumbles. “Ask Coach.” 

 

 

Most of Mike’s night is spent staring at the empty space in the bed next to him. He manages to hold himself still, if not asleep, until six, but then he’s up – bouncing around the room, not tired in the least, and running wholly on nervous energy. He needs to see Jeff, but there’s no way _to_ see him without getting _sent_ there by Coach. And there’s no way to _ask_ Coach to go see him without possibly tipping his hand. What he needs is an excuse. 

What he needs is a fucking _rookie._

 

 

“Gee,” he calls, pounding on his door. “Get up.” 

Giroux answers the door rubbing his eyes and clearly still half asleep. “Richie. It’s… six thirty. What is it?” 

“Get dressed. We’re going to see Coach. Come on, hurry up.” Mike pulls out his Irritated Captain voice, and it works – Giroux doesn’t argue, just pulls his pants on and follows Mike downstairs. 

Coach is already in his office working when they make it downstairs – Coach is _always_ working. He gestures them into seats across the desk from him. For a second, Mike gets a flash of memory, of sitting here across from Stevens. He wonders if he could have asked Stevens to go see Jeff. He thinks Stevens might have just sent him. 

“What is it, boys?” Coach Laviolette asks. 

Mike clears his throat. “Coach, it would mean a lot to Giroux and the other rookies on the team if we could go see Carter. See how he’s doing.” 

Laviolette looks pointedly at Giroux. Giroux blinks a couple times, but to his credit, doesn’t choke or anything. “Um. Yeah.” He’s nodding. “Carts is like a… mentor. Type. Figure. Guy.” He trails off, darts a glance at Mike. 

Mike bites out a tight smile. “Exactly. A mentor.” He nods encouragingly. 

Coach studies them both, brow slightly furrowed. Mike becomes aware he and Giroux probably look like bobbleheads and he makes himself stop nodding. Coach smacks him gum once or twice more, then finally says, “Well, I can’t send _everyone._ ” There’s a pause where Mike holds his breath. “But if you two wanted to go before practice today?” 

“Yes,” Mike says, probably too quickly. “Of course. I’d be happy to go. To support Giroux.” 

Giroux _looks_ at him. “ _Thanks,_ Richie. Coach.” 

Which is how he ends up dragging Giroux to the hospital with him. 

 

 

 

 

Mike closes the door to Jeff room behind them carefully. He hangs back, suddenly anxious, but Giroux walks right up to Jeff’s bed, bright and seemingly not nervous at all. “Hey, Carts!” 

Jeff blinks at him slowly. “Gee! How’s it going?” 

“Good, man. How are you? How’s the foot?” He pulls a chair up to the edge of Jeff’s bed. 

_“Great.”_ Jeff tells him seriously. “Well.” A pause. “My foot’s fucked.” Another pause. “But they’re fixing it soon.” Jeff waves a hand dismissively. He is, Mike realizes, fucking _wasted._

“Good, that’s good, Carts.” Giroux pats his arm, shifting over as a nurse comes in to check all the weird machines Jeff is plugged into. 

“Listen Gee,” Jeff is enunciating very carefully. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to play on Thursday, so here’s what you need to do…” 

But Mike sort of tunes their chatter out, because he’s noticed the clipboard of papers attached to the end of Jeff’s bed. He picks it up, and catches the nurse on her way out of the room. “Excuse me – what are these?” 

She blinks at him. “Those are transfer coding instructions. For his PerT tags.” She sounds bored. 

“Why does it say the Blue & White on it?” Mike is very carefully keeping his tone even. 

She sighs and takes the papers from him, flipping through them with an irritated air. “ _If._ If surgery is deemed successful, patient is to be remanded back to the Orange,” she translates. “If unsuccessful, sent to the Blue  & White.” She shoves the papers back at Mike, and it’s clear from her air of distraction that she’s got about a hundred more important things to attend to than _him._

“But _why?_ ” Mike insists. 

She frowns. “This is first rate institution. We treat top tier citizens here. Not just _anyone._ ” Which seems to be as much explanation as she feels she has to give. 

Mike swallows and retreats back into the room. Jeff glances up and blinks, as though he’s seeing Mike for the first time. “Mike!” 

“Right,” Giroux says, pushing his chair back and standing. “That’s my cue.” 

Mike more or less collapses into the seat Gee’s just vacated. “Hey.” 

Jeff reaches out to touch Mike’s face, his hand cupping Mike’s cheek. “Hey, Mike.” Jeff’s smiling softly. 

“How are you feeling?” Mike reaches out to take hold of Jeff’s free hand. 

Jeff pauses, thoughtful. “I’m pretty high,” he says finally. “Don’t tell the rookie.” 

Mike shakes his head. “Okay, Jeff.” _His_ heart is hammering in his chest, but Jeff looks calm. Peaceful. 

“Win some games for me, okay?” Jeff yawns. “I want you guys to still be in it when I get better.” 

“Okay,” Mike agrees softly. And then – _fuck_ the fact that Giroux is standing somewhere just behind him – he covers the hand Jeff has on his face with one of his own, turns his face to kiss Jeff’s palm. “I’ll see you when you get out, okay?” 

Jeff hums at him, already mostly asleep. 

When he turns around, Giroux is hovering awkwardly in the doorway, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. 

“Not a _word._ ” Mike says. 

Giroux darts a look up at him. Nods. 

“Okay,” Mike says. “Let’s go.” 

 

 

 

 

They finish off the Red & Black on Thursday, an easy win, but Mike doesn’t get on the board. In the handshake line, their Alternate Captain squeezes his hand and says, “I heard…” He swallows nervously. 

Mike nods and shakes a chip free from his sleeve. “Hope you didn’t throw the game to get this.” 

Parise laughs. “Fat chance, Richards.” His fingers close around the chip. “Take it all,” he says and fist bumps Mike on his way past. 

 

 

 

 

The next day they’re headed to the Yellow for the semis. They’ll be gone four days. When they get back, Jeff will either be home. Or he won’t. 

 

 

 

 

Coach pulls him aside before the first game. “Richards.” He’s smacking his gum again. Mike’s not sure if it’s a nervous habit, or just part of the background of restless energy that _is_ Coach Laviolette. “Did you know the last time Carter was out, you went on an eight game point drought?” 

Mike’s stomach drops. 

“This is the playoffs, Richards. I can’t have that. So whatever it is you need to do to get your head squared away, you do that?” He slaps Mike’s shoulder. “Got it?” 

“Got it,” Mike answers weakly. 

Game one he racks up three points. Game two, a goal. Mike plays viciously, operating under the assumption that Jeff’s going to be _fine._ He doesn’t let himself consider anything else. They still lose both. 

Game three, they’re back in Philly and there’s no sign that Jeff’s been there. Mike ramps it up, slamming around the ice, a careening dervish. But the Yellow runs the show the whole time. They lose 4-1. 

Being down three games in the series merits an epic post-game screaming session from Laviolette. Mike crawls back up to his room late, hollowed out and raw, calling out exhausted goodnights to the guys. 

 

 

There’s a foot – encased in a cast – sticking out from under the covers at the end of his bed. 

“Oh, thank _Christ,_ ” he breathes, and then he’s shoving his clothes off, climbing into bed with Jeff. “Jeff. Jeff. _Carts._ Jeff.” 

Jeff murmurs sleepily at him, pulls Mike towards him. “You sound happy. Did we win?” 

“What? No.” He’s running his hands over Jeff’s face. His shoulders. His back. “But you’re back.” 

Jeff regards him with sleepy confusion. “Of course I’m back.” 

Mike gives up on dignity and lets himself cling to Jeff, press his face into Jeff’s throat, and just breathe. 

 

 

In the morning, Jeff is still there. Mike stretches out along the length of him, warm and familiar. Safe and whole – at least mostly. Jeff’s fingers tease along the waistband of his boxers. “Tell me you have time for this,” he says. 

“I have time for whatever you want,” Mike answers. And it’s true, there is literally nothing he would not blow off to stay here, right now. 

Jeff smirks, like he knows what Mike’s thinking. He’s lifting his hips, working his own shorts down. He lets his knees fall open. Mike strokes his hand over the familiar curve of Jeff’s hip, and he’s caught up short by the thought of how well he knows Jeff’s body – all the lines and curves and planes of it. He’d know this hip in the dark, anywhere. 

Jeff bucks his hips a little and makes a face at him, impatient. So Mike settles between his legs. He likes the way Jeff’s eyes close in anticipation, the way he lets one hand settle against the back of Mike’s head. The way that after he’ll haul Mike up and kiss him, jerk him off exactly how Mike wants it – because nobody knows _him_ as well as Jeff does. It goes both ways. 

After, when Mike is still catching his breath, Jeff curls himself around him, presses up against his side, kissing his temple. Mike twines their fingers together. “You have to win.” Jeff moves down to mouth along the line of his jaw, his throat. “You have to win so I can come back and play, okay?” 

Mike is pliant. Boneless. “Whatever you want, Jeff.” He means it. 

 

 

Game four, the Yellow comes at them fast. Mike can tell they want to close it out, bad. Every mistake the Orange makes gets amplified: every turnover is breakaway that has to be stopped. If they fuck up their neutral zone coverage, it’s not one Yellow forward sweeping down on the net, it’s _three._ And then, of course, there’s Chara – who wields his stick like an extension of his arm, who can block whole passing lanes simply by _existing._ Boston’s sticks light up a deep, long-wave, purple, and they’re not shy about using them. 

But the Orange, they want it _too._ Mike can see it in their faces, in the way Giroux grits his teeth when his breakaway gets turned aside and makes it his personal mission to beat Bergeron, in the way Hartnell throws himself into the corners, even when he _knows_ a Yellow fore-checker is just half a second behind him. In the way all of them track the action on the ice. The way they throw themselves over the boards, shift after shift. 

They go into overtime tied at 4-4. 

Coach switches it up: sends him out with Gagne and Briere, and that is a simple message if there ever was one: _put the fucking puck in the fucking net._

Mikes skates to the circle. He thinks about Jeff chirping him in practice about his face off stance. “ _Lower,_ Richie,” he had said. “You have to get _lower._ ” 

And Mike had said something like, “We’re not all eight feet tall, Carts.” 

He thinks about Jeff’s season being over. 

He thinks about the last four years, the next _eleven_ years. He blinks. The Ref’s knuckles are swollen. One of his nails is cracked. Mike breathes out, refocuses on the next two seconds. 

He wins the draw. 

The puck saucers back to Pronger. Pronger to Carle. Mike finds some open ice for himself up near the boards just in time to catch the pass from the point. Gagne’s at the net and he’s almost clear of the man covering him. Mike pauses, dallies. 

_Almost._

He holds, bounces it off the boards to himself, rounds in again to keep his body between the Yellow and the puck. 

_Clear._

He fires to Gagne. 

Gagne tips it in. 

There’s a scrum of screaming, celebratory faces at the boards, the sort of madness you just have to go with, or be swept up in anyway. 

_That’s one._

 

 

Jeff says, “Way to make it a nail biter, man.” 

“Oh, you stayed awake for this one?” Mike rejoins. 

 

 

Game five, back in the Yellow, the Orange jumps out to an early lead – Hartsy puts it in after almost stabbing himself _in the face,_ thanks the Boston’s hard checking. They’re holding on, just barely – a couple of lucky bounces keeping the score at 1-0 – when the Yellow drives to the net and there’s a pile up. The Yellow forward goes down on top of Parent. Both of them on top of Boucher, in net. 

The Orange netminder pitches his blocker – Mike can hear him _scream_ all the way from the bench. The trainer rushes out – and Mike’s just behind him. The fingers of Boucher’s bare hand claw at the surface of the ice as he twists himself, curling protectively around his knee. Out of the corner of his eye, Mike can see Pronger, their massive D-man, circling as close as he can get without being in the way, expression dark. 

Prongs helps carry Boucher off the ice, and Mike takes a second to feel _sorry_ for the Yellow – because Prongs feels about his goalies the way most people feel about puppies and small children: you don’t get to hurt them and get away with it. 

The Yellow goes down 4-0. And that’s _two wins._ Two to go. 

 

 

Game six, another train ride back to the Orange, another night on home ice, riding the roar of their supporters. Mike racks up a goal, an assist, and comes within inches of a fight when Savard drives him into the boards and Lucic takes the opportunity to smack him in the face with his stick. It _would_ have been a fight, except the whole two-on-one aspect brings half the Orange players on the ice blazing in to his defense, and the Refs split it up before it can become a complete clusterfuck. They hold off the Yellow to close the game at 2-1. 

 

 

That night Jeff pulls him in close. “I love watching you play.” 

Mike pauses in the middle of prodding at his fat lip and blinks, surprised. “Really?” 

“Yeah. I mean, I _hate_ not being there. But – you make it look fun.” 

 

 

Game seven. Boston opens the scoring, scores again, and then scores _again,_ all in the opening fifteen. 

Laviolette calls them in. He is shockingly calm, seemingly not upset in the least. He says, “We need to play _our_ game. We need to control the tempo. They think the first ten minutes of this hockey game are important? I say we need to play the _whole game._ ” His tone is even, if he’s the least worried about their ability to come back, he doesn’t let on. Laviolette looks up at him, “Richards, I want you out between Gee and JVR.” 

Mike glances over at Giroux and JVR. Both of them, but Giroux especially, are flushed. Giroux’s mouth is pressed into a thin line, and he looks _angry._ A hard, focused kind of angry. 

He needs this cup, Mike realizes, probably more than Mike does. A need for progress, for tangible progression, for an endpoint, and more than that a need to _win,_ to be one year closer to freedom. 

And for the first time, Mike believes, really, _really_ believes that this is going to be the year. They’re going to fucking get it. 

After that it’s calm – clockwork. On their next shift Mike plays the wrecking ball – checking the D man out of the way so Gee can set up. Gee to JVR, JVR to the net. 3-1. 

And _goddamn_ , watching the rookies, his mind flashes to Jeff – and they are something else. _Their_ fucking rookies. _Their_ fucking team. 

In the second period it’s Hartsy who scores off the rebound, then Briere with a sick wraparound, to tie it all up. And it’s almost businesslike, a calm progression of scoring, each shift punching in, punching out, giving it their all and being rewarded for it. 

Laviolette just nods, like it’s no less than he expected. And grudgingly, Mike admits to himself that nuts or not, this guy might be _good._

The first half of the third period passes scoreless. The Yellow is growing increasingly physical, purple lights flaring up and down the ice, and pushing the pace, getting almost manic in their rushes. It’s only a matter of time before they make a mistake. 

It’s a careless, stupid mistake. They get called for _too many men,_ and it puts the Orange up, on the power play. And for once, it works just exactly like they’ve run it in practice: Carle takes the point. Carle to Gagne. Gags to Leino behind the net. Leino shoots it to Mike. Mike gets it back to Gagne. Gagne two-taps it in. And that’s it, that’s the series. 

 

 

 

 

They _roll_ through the Blue  & Red, and Jeff is back in time to help finish them off. Laviolette slots Jeff right onto Mike’s line. 

Right where he belongs. 

God, there would be so much eye-rolling if he said that aloud. 

 

 

They finish off the series in game five, and Mike texts Sharpie, _TELL ME YOURE FUCKING IN BECAUSE WE ARE GOING._

Sharpie sends back, _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

That about sums it up. 

 

 

 

 

The day before they leave for Chicago, Mike gets called in for a meeting with Laviolette. Which isn’t unusual. What is unusual is that they bypass Laviolette’s office. Instead, Coach takes him up to the board room in the admin wing. Holmgren is there, along with two gray haired men Mike doesn’t recognize. 

“Mike, this is Mr. Snider, Mr. Shabel.” Holmgren nods at each in turn. “Mike Richards, our captain.” 

“Of course.” Snider smiles at him. 

“Mike, we want to congratulate you on your team’s season. You’ve had a hell of a playoff run.” Holmgren’s gaze is cool, and Mike swallows, because the atmosphere in the room isn’t exactly _congratulatory._

“Thank you,” he answers uncertainly. “It’s the guys on the team. They’re solid. I don’t have to do much, really.” 

There’s an awkward pause, like maybe that was a rhetorical statement he wasn’t supposed to answer. Holmgren clears his throat. “As you know, the Black & Gold won the cup last year.” 

Mike’s mouth twists. That wound still stings. 

“Which is why we feel the Western Conference should win the 2010 Stanley Cup.” Holmgren folds his hands on the table. 

Mike blinks stupidly for a second. _“What?”_ He looks wildly around the table, but they’re fucking _serious._

“Mike – ” Holmgren starts, but Snider waves him quiet. 

Snider turns to face him. “Mr. Richards, I’m sure you can grasp the delicate situation the Union is in at the moment, in trying to balance the needs and well-being of all its constitute provinces.” 

_No,_ Mike doesn’t grasp _shit_ about the Union’s situation or what it has to do with his team losing games they haven’t even played yet. He’s shaking his head. “ _No._ I can’t do that. I can’t do that to my _team._ ” 

“Ed,” Holmgren looks very serious, very somber, “I think that it’s important we be honest with Mike.” 

Snider nods, thoughtful. “Well. Whatever you feel is best, Paul.” 

Holmgren sighs. “Mike you probably don’t know this, but there are significant acts of rebellion occurring in the West, terrorist activity in the Red, and the Red & Green.” 

And that stacks up with what Julia’s told him, but Mike’s pretty sure he’s not _supposed_ to know any of it. 

“That’s putting a lot of pressure on the Eastern provinces that border those areas. The Blue & White, specifically.” Holmgren shakes his head sadly. “These anti-Union groups have cut off a great number of supply routes, leading to shortages in the Blue & White. Fuel shortages.” He makes eye contact with Mike. “Food shortages.” 

Mike’s nails bite into his palms. “The Blue & White?” 

It’s Snider who answers him. “Yes. It’s worst in the western part of the province, obviously. We feel winning the Cup would do a great deal to alleviate the unrest in the West. Settle things down.” 

“You really think winning the Cup would do that?” Mike’s eyes dart between Holmgren and Snider. 

“Well, with the demise of football, basketball, it’s the last trophy left. That’s a powerful thing.” Holmgren smiles thinly. “But of course, you knew that.” 

 

 

 

 

The rest of the afternoon passes in a bit of daze. Jeff keeps shooting him worried looks, but Mike just shakes him off. Mike thinks, Jeff would be furious, if he knew. Because there’s _no way_ Jeff would go along with any plan that helped the Union, no matter what the consequences. He’d probably put the whole team on his back. Sweep the Red single-handedly just out of pure, unaltered _spite._

And that’s why Mike can’t tell him. 

 

 

 

 

He sends out a flutter of text messages, to guys in the Blue & White, looking for information, and then he sends one more: _i need to see you. tonight._

Julia meets him outside the restaurant where they had their first _date._ She’s wearing a dark dress that fades into the dusky evening light; it take him a minute to spot her. 

She smiles at him, and then her brow crinkles. “Where’s Jeff?” 

“Jeff couldn’t make it,” he lies. Jeff is actually probably wondering where the fuck Mike is, and Mike feels a twinge of guilt about that. 

She puts her hand in his arm, and Mike sets them walking. This part of Philly is all red brick and Georgian accents. Narrow streets and paving-stone sidewalks. “So what – ” next to him Julia maneuvers carefully over the uneven ground, “ – is so important that you needed to see me _tonight?_ ” 

“We’re leaving for Chicago tomorrow morning, and I – ” Mike hesitates. “I need to know if something I heard is true.” 

Julia frowns. “Ah, so not a social call, then? All right, out with it.” 

Mike chews his lip. “I heard resistance forces in the Red and the Red & Green are cutting off supplies to the western part of the Blue & White. I need to know if it’s true.” 

Julia stops walking. “Mike, I _know_ your parents are up there, but I told you – there’s _nothing_ you can do from here. You’ll just drive yourself crazy worrying about it.” 

“Julia, I need to know if it’s _true._ ” 

He’s got her by the arm and she gasps a little, looks down at his hand. Mike makes himself loosen his grip. 

“Sometimes,” she says, and her eyes are huge in the dark, somber, “sometimes you have to make sacrifices, Mike. It’s a _war._ ” Her voice is shaking, just a little. “I’m sorry.” 

 

 

 

 

GAME ONE, the Red. 

The Red’s arena is all swirling spotlights and red neon racing around the edges of the stands. They have music playing, nothing like what they’re allowed in the Orange, thumping like a heartbeat – and, _thanks Chicago,_ that’s just exactly what he doesn’t need. Mike can already _taste_ the adrenaline in the back of his throat, feel it in way his fingertips tingle. 

All their routines are in place, all their rituals. Mike prepped for the game exactly the same as he always does – with the exception that he spent the hour he usually naps staring at the ceiling, because sleep wouldn’t come. But he ate what he’s supposed to eat. Listened to Coach’s usual pre-game words, did _everything_ he normally does to be focused and up and ready – to have his _team_ be focused and ready. 

And it’s like eating ashes because the whole routine is designed to help them _win,_ and Mike is supposed to _lose._ The dissonance is a constant, high-pitched whine in his head. 

During their warm-up laps he catches sight of Sharpie and Eager on the opposite end of the ice. Sharpie is timing his circles to coincide with Mike’s. When Mike looks over, Sharpie grins unabashedly at him. Mike ducks his head. 

He takes the opening faceoff against the Red’s captain. Mike looks him up and down, and at least _someone_ on the Red is taking this seriously. He’s matched up against Toews all night, and Toews is good – good enough to keep Mike from doing much while he’s on the ice, even if he wasn’t second guessing his every move. 

When he forgets to think, he _plays._ He can’t _not_ battle Seabrook in the corner. He can’t _not_ step into Byfuglien high and hard when he goes after Coburn. But then he’ll catch himself – thoughts running through his head like clashing notes, and stumble. His strides go skittery, his stickhandling sloppy. 

But really, there’s only so much he can do. The game ends up being a battle of third- and fourth-liners. And both goalies are jittery, pucks are going _in_ tonight. 

They go into the third at 5-5. 

Midway through the period, Mike races Kopecky for the puck. Kopecky beats him to it, and Chicago scores. The worst part is, he honestly _doesn’t know_ whether he went all out or not. Whether he meant to, or not. 

The thought makes him _pissed,_ stick-breaking-over-the-net _pissed._

He skates to the bench and Laviolette just looks at him. And then he nods, once. Very slightly. 

The whine in his head doubles in volume. Mike tries to push it down. Shut it out 

That’s the last goal of the night. They lose. 

 

 

Back in their hotel room, Mike flips mindlessly through the entire channel run of the TV. Does it again. Again – 

Jeff steps between him and the television. “So.” 

Mike’s thumb hovers over the button. He looks up at Jeff. “So, what?” 

Jeff makes an irritated face. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” 

Mike flips the TV off, tosses the remote away. He gets up and walks to the window. “We just lost. In the Stanley Cup _finals._ ” 

“Yeah.” Jeff is just behind him, not touching him, but Mike can see his reflection in the window. “But something was wrong before we even started playing. So will you tell me what it is?” 

Mike turns around to face him. “Fuck me,” he says. 

Jeff is still frowning. “I’ll take that as a, no, you’re not going to tell me.” 

Mike scowls. He starts tugging Jeff’s shirt free of his pants. “Come on,” he cajoles. When Jeff still looks skeptical, Mike steps into his space, presses against him. 

Jeff is still watching him with worried eyes, but his arms come around Mike, automatic. Slide up his arms. Mike can tell his resolve is fading. “Come on,” Mike says again, soft. 

Jeff is careful with him. Gentle. Until Mike manages to brace himself against the headboard, push until Jeff is flush against his back. 

Jeff’s hands flex on his hips, pinpoints of pressure that penetrate Mike’s daze. He scrabbles for leverage, rocking back, eyes squeezed shut, lost in it. 

“Jesus, Mike, you have to be – you have to be _quiet._ ” And Mike wasn’t really aware that he was making noise, but Jeff’s hand is suddenly reaching up to cover his mouth. 

Mike sucks on the fingers of Jeff’s hand instead, and Jeff says, “ _Fuck._ ” Then he gives up any semblance of holding back. His free hand comes down to rest on top of Mike’s wrist where it’s braced, locking him in, holding him in place, and Mike just – comes apart. 

 

 

 

 

GAME TWO, the Red 

Game two starts nasty, stays nasty, ends nasty. 

The opening faceoff is a war of escalation, conducted in miniature. 

The Red sends out their checking line to face Mike. Bolland grins at him and cracks his neck. 

Then, at the false start whistle, Coach Laviolette swaps out Gagne for Carcillo, a declaration of _intent to harm_ if there ever was one. 

Chicago uses the opportunity to pull their top D pairing, presumably for their own protection, and replace them with something that’s a little less finesse, a lot more impact-driven. 

It is a sixty minute battle, start to finish. Carcillo’s got a long leash tonight, and he knows it. But he’s not the only one. Prongs and Byfuglien have been sizing each other up all night, and Mike is too busy trying to keep his head up, keep clear of Bolland, to worry about much else. 

The Orange doesn’t even get on the board until the third – but it’s a sweet goal. Jeff wraps it around the boards, behind the net to him. Without even thinking, Mike centers it to where Gagne is waiting, set up perfectly in front of the net. Too much traffic for the Red goalie to get a read, and it’s in. 

As soon as the lamp lights up , he panics – breath catching in his throat, blood going to ice in his veins – but then Gags is hitting him, hugging him, following by Jeff and Prongs. 

They end up losing 2-1. It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s doing what he’s supposed to be doing. It’s fine. 

 

 

Jeff doesn’t make it back to the hotel room until hours after Mike. 

Mike’s been fighting down nausea, trying to balance the ledger in his head. On one side he’s got _his parents_ and _unrest_ and _food shortage._ On the other, _losing_ and _cheating_ and _lying._

Lying to _Jeff_. 

Jeff leans back against the door, looking exhausted. He forces a thin smile. “So, Nodl is freaking out pretty hard.” 

Nodl was called up from the Phantoms midway through the conference semis. But – “Nodl didn’t even play today.” It’s true, he’s been a healthy scratch. 

Jeff shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.” He pushes off the door with a sigh and starts pulling his clothes off. “We have to do better.” 

Mike swallows around the lump in his throat, locks his hands together under the sheets. “He’s pretty upset, huh?” 

Jeff sprawls out beside him, lays an arm across Mike’s shoulders. It feels like a lead weight. 

“God, with the way their contracts are written now, it’s their only hope.” He’s rubbing absently over Mike’s back. 

Mike glances over sharply. “What do you mean?” 

Jeff frowns at him mildly. “The rookie contracts? They only become eligible for Free Agency after a Cup win.” He pauses. “Hell – thanks to Holmgren, half the team has a clause like that in their contract. Keeps everyone cheap. And disposable.” He makes a face of concerted disgust. 

Mike blinks rapidly. His breathing goes shallow. “I didn’t know.” 

“Hmm? Well, nobody likes talking about contracts, but – ” Jeff gestures absently with his free hand. “Emotions running high, you know – stuff comes out.” 

Jeff doesn’t seem to notice that Mike’s gone rigid beside him. “Anyway,” Jeff settles down further into the bed, “can we just…?” He gestures at Mike to hit the light. 

“Yeah,” Mike says. He still doesn’t sleep. 

 

 

 

 

GAME THREE, the Orange 

Early in the first, Jeff takes an extra whack on a puck in the Red netminder’s pad, and gets checked into the glass, hard, by Seabrook for his troubles. The rest of the Red’s line is suddenly there too – Byfuglien on Jeff’s other side, keeping him pinned, Keith closing in up the middle. 

“This is how you guys play the game?” Mike yells at the Red’s captain as he darts around the net, inserts himself between Keith and Jeff. 

Toews does a double take, and then he’s sprinting over, getting his arms around Seabrook’s shoulders, pushing him away. And whatever he’s murmuring to his teammates is working, because they back off. Byfuglien shoots Mike a nasty glare. Mike curls his lip in return. 

Jeff looks disgusted. He shakes off the last of the guys holding him. Mike keeps a hand on his back as they skate away. 

The game doesn’t exactly get _nicer_ from there. On the bench, Mike sort of goes into Pissed Captain autopilot. “Let’s _get them_.” He tells them. 

They do. Giroux fucking _turns it on_ , and it’s like he’s found a whole other gear, a whole other level of hockey. 

Scoring stays tight though, 2-2 at the end of the second. 3-3 at the end of the third. 

Giroux takes them home with an OT goal. For a moment, Mike is viciously, brutally pleased. 

 

 

It’s late, and Jeff is already passed out, curled under an ugly hotel coverlet, when Sharpie’s text comes in, _is it collusion with the enemy if i ask how carts is?_

Mike looks over. Jeff’s back is mottled black and blue, but it’s normal stuff. Playoff normal, anyway. _he's fine,_ Mike sends. 

His phone buzzes again almost immediately. _one of my new rookies wont stop talking about that sweet deke carts pulled in the second._

There’s a pause and then, _of course he never stops talking anyway, full stop._

Mike stares down at his phone and tries to imagine Sharpie surrounded by new rookies. He’s probably still telling the same goddamn stories. Mike smiles, but it’s hollow. They won, tonight, and at the time it felt _great._ His guys were ecstatic. _Jeff_ was ecstatic. But now Jeff’s asleep and Mike is alone with his thoughts, and they keep spiraling around the same question: Fuck over the guys he’s worked, and sweated, and bled with – all this season or longer? Or fuck over his parents? 

_Richie?_

He blinks, look down at the phone in his hands. _sharpie,_ he sends, _would you do something really bad, if it was for the right reasons?_

A beat, then Sharpie responds, _are you okay?_

Another. _Mike?_

Mike bites his lip. His head hurts. How much would Sharpie hate him, if he knew? A lot, probably. But not nearly as much as Jeff would. As any of his guys would. 

He sends, _we probably shouldn’t talk. at least until the series is over_ , and then he turns off his phone. 

 

 

 

 

GAME FOUR, the Orange 

Game four they’re back at home, and they lead, all through the first, on the back of their rookies. Who clearly _want it._

Coach gives them a moment, just to breath, between periods. Mike has sandpaper behind his eyes. There’s a muscle in his eyelid that won’t stop jumping. He digs in his duffle, looking for his extra shirt, but it’s not there. Instead, his hand closes around his _phone._

“Fuck.” Clearly he is exhausted if he grabbed the _entirely wrong bag_ from his room. 

The phone is cool in his hands. He grits his teeth, then pauses and glances around. Keeping his hands buried in the bag, wrist deep, he pops the SIM card back in. Turns his phone on. 

The first message that pops up is from Sharpie, _MIKE RICHARDS WTF?_

But others pop up after that. Six days after he first sent them off, his messages have finally filtered up to the Blue & White, reached the right people, and he’s starting to get responses: 

_naw, no problems with the red_

_all the roadblocks ive seen are set up by the union_

_the west? nope – miss playin em, though!_

 

 

Everything goes very still. _This,_ he thinks, _is what Stevens meant when he said not to trust Holmgren._ That thought is followed closely by, _I have been a fucking idiot._

If there is no conflict between the West and the Blue & White, then Holmgren is _lying._ It’s just a story he made up to get Mike to help him. But if what Holmgren wants is for Mike to lead them to a loss, anything else will still mean the end of his Captaincy. 

He looks around at his guys – pleased to be ahead, but exhausted all the same: JVR with his head tilted back, Hartnell balancing bags of ice on both shoulders, Giroux, slumped exhausted against Briere, Jeff locked in some sort of intense discussion with Pronger. 

They are, all of them, exhausted, playing hurt, still giving it everything they have. To win. 

_Fuck his captaincy. Fuck Holmgren._

 

 

The second is scoreless, but Mike feels sharper, more _on_ than he has all series, and it’s just a matter of time before he puts the puck in, he can _feel_ it. 

In the third, the Red creeps back to within one goal. Jeff takes the faceoff, and the puck darts out to one of Chicago’s D. But it doesn’t matter, Mike strips him as easy as breathing, dangles through traffic to wraparound. Score. “Just like that,” he tells the bench. 

After that, penalties make it four-on-four hockey, and it’s just him and Jeff out there. It’s almost like playing pond hockey back home. Jeff scores the empty-netter at the end to make it 5-3. Brilliant. 

 

 

The evening after the game, Jeff is pleased with their performance. Mike can tell by the relaxed way he wanders the kitchen. Jeff teases Carle on his way out about finally putting up a point, tosses an apple in the air, and shoots a smile at Mike. Mike grins back. 

“You almost done?” He asks Mike. 

Mike looks down at the interview questions in front of him. “Almost. I should be able to knock this out pretty quick.” 

“Then I’ll see you later.” Jeff grins again and heads for their room. 

Mike watches him leave. 

Behind him, someone clears their throat. Mike jumps. The Morality Officer is suddenly _right there,_ right at his shoulder. _“Chr – crap.”_ He casts a murderous glance at the M.O. “You startled me.” 

The M.O. grins wide, showing teeth. For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all. Then he reaches down and twists his hand in the chain of Mike’s PerT tags. They go tight around his throat. “Richards. I could make your life very difficult.” 

_What the fuck._ Mike glances around but it’s late and the kitchen is deserted. “What the _fuck._ ” He looks up at the guy the best he can. “I didn’t do anything. Why would you would _want_ to?” 

The M.O. twists until Mike’s neck is getting pinched. “We all have our instructions, Richards. You know precisely what you’re supposed to be doing. And you’re being _watched._ ” 

Mike breathes in sharply. _If I hit him,_ he thinks, _they’ll hang me from the nearest tree._ It’s still tempting. 

The M.O. gives his PerTs one last tug. “Think about that.” 

Watching him leave, Mike sucks in air and tries to shake off the feeling of the chain biting into his neck. 

 

 

 

 

GAME FIVE, the Red 

Mike can’t sleep on the plane. He can’t sleep in the hotel. He lets Jeff pull him close, hold onto him while _he_ sleeps, and maybe that’ll be good enough for both of them. 

Mike battles hard. Everyone’s tired, but Mike’s screaming for them, cheering their attempts – the guys pick it up and bench is _loud,_ and it drowns out at least some of the Red crowd noise. 

And then, halfway through the first, Laviolette stops calling his line. Starts mixing the match-ups. It’s chaos. Chicago scores three times in quick succession. 

In the locker room, Mike stares down his coach. “What the _fuck?_ ” he snarls. Loud. In front of everyone. 

Laviolette’s features flatten out. “I know tempers are running high – ” 

“Fuck that,” Mike spits. “I don’t know what he told you, what he offered you, but it’s not worth it – ” 

“Richards!” Laviolette’s face is red. “You will sit down and shut up. Or you will not dress for the rest of the game. Got it?” 

His team is staring at him. _Jeff_ is staring at him. Mike sits. 

Chicago wipes the floor with them, 7-4. 

 

 

Mike is still blazingly angry by the time they make it back to the hotel, his breath coming short and sharp, his fingers flexing uselessly. 

Jeff is just watching him. Steady and tense, like he’s trying to figure out the best way to ask Mike _what the fuck,_ without setting him off. 

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Gagne and Hartnell. Coburn and Timo behind them. A _bunch_ of the guys behind them. 

Hartnell says, “Richie, I think it’s time you tell us what the fuck is going on.” 

It’s odd, having almost twenty massive guys crammed into their hotel room, perched on the bed, sprawled on the floor. Mike has to smile when he looks at them, even though what he’s saying tastes bitter. “Holmgren,” he says, “doesn’t want us to win.” 

And when they’ve digested that, he says, “but we _are._ ” 

“Richie, how the fuck – ” 

“We play hockey. This is our last chance, so we play really fucking good hockey.” 

 

 

 

 

GAME SIX, the Orange 

Elimination game. 

Wachovia. The locker room. Morning skate. Food. The locker room again. The bench. 

Mike looks down the line. All his guys look good. All his guys look _ready._ God, they’re solid – a fighting, functional, hockey-playing _machine._ The Orange doesn’t fucking deserve them. 

And they do – play _really fucking good hockey,_ that is. But the only thing that matters in game six, is that Giroux’s OT shot rings off the post. 

 

 

 

 

Patrick Kane’s goes in. 

 

 

 

 

When they finally make it back to their room, Mike says, “I tried. I did everything I could.” 

Jeff nods. His hands cup Mike’s face. “I know. Is that going to come back on you?” 

Mike closes his eyes. “Fuck it. If I’m not captain next year, so what? I’ll still be on the team. I’ll still have you.” 

Jeff’s throat works, and for a second he just looks – raw, cracked open. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls Mike close, and Mike finally, _finally_ sleeps. 

 

 

When he wakes, Jeff is lying next to him, warm and still mostly asleep. The square of sunlight on the pillow is starting to creep over the side of his face. Mike presses himself up against Jeff’s side, snakes an arm around his waist. 

Jeff’s eyes slit open. He curls an arm around Mike, sighs into his hair. “Morning.” 

Mike hums against his chest. 

“I’ve decided that if we had to lose to someone, I’m glad we lost to Sharpie.” Jeff says after a minute. 

“I didn’t want to lose to anyone.” It comes out a shade more vicious than Mike intended. 

Jeff worries at his lip, and his arm tightens around Mike. “Mike, what’s going to happen today?” 

When Mike closes his eyes, he can still see everyone’s disappointed faces. He sighs. “I don’t know. I’ll probably get yelled at. Lose the ‘C’. Get yelled at some more.” He shrugs. 

The hand Jeff’s been carding through his hair stills. “What if they – ” 

“What if they what?” 

Jeff shrugs. “I don’t know, I just – worry.” 

Mike pushes himself up onto his elbows. “Holmgren got what he fucking wanted, all right? And he’s – he’s stuck with us.” He presses his forehead into Jeff’s. “We’re still here, right? Everything and everybody around us is different, but what’s the same?” 

Jeff nods against him. “You and me,” he answers softly. 

“Yeah. That’s right.” Jeff’s hands are sliding up his arms. “You are me, we’re still here. And we’re going to be fine. All this will blow over,” Mike says. 

Jeff gives him a tiny smile. So Mike kisses him, soft and easy. Jeff’s mouth opens under his, and then his hands are roaming up Mike’s back. Mike gets a flash of _want_ and _need_ , and under it, just an abiding, constant warmth. 

And then the alarm goes off. 

Jeff grumbles against his mouth. “Do you still have to do interviews today?” 

Mike groans. There’s one part of captaining he won’t miss. “I guess so? No one’s said otherwise.” 

“Rough. You want me to clean out your locker for you?” Jeff’s hand slides down to stroke his neck. 

“Would you?” Mike asks, sort of hopeful. “Could you just burn everything?” 

Jeff snorts. “Sure.” 

Mike kisses him one last time before pulling away. “Later? Tonight?” 

Jeff grumbles, but he drags his thumb across Mike’s mouth, and he’s smiling. “Of course.” 

 

 

Showered, shaved, Mike faces down the finest the Orange’s media corps has to offer, answering the same questions over and over again, until he’s sure it’s meant as a form of torture. It’s late afternoon by the time he’s done. He glances over at the aide who’s been coordinating for him. “Please tell me that was the last of it.” 

She smiles shyly. “Almost. But Mr. Holmgren would like to see you now.” 

Well. No sense in putting off the inevitable. 

Holmgren’s office is just like he remembered: shiny trophies and wood panels. Leather chairs. Holmgren gestures for him to take a seat, “Please, Mike, sit down.” 

Mike sits. 

Holmgren folds his hands on the surface of the desk. “Mike, surely you realize how important it is to the club to have a Captain who can work well with others. Someone who can cooperate.” 

Mike stiffens. “I’ve been a good leader for this team. I just took us to the Stanley Cup finals. And anyway, you got what you wanted.” Mike’s gaze narrows. “We lost didn’t we?” 

Holmgren is still looking at him, blue eyes focused, intent. “And yet, I don’t really believe you were ever on board with the plan, Mike. I think you were working towards your own agenda. And,” he leans forward, “we can’t have that.” 

Mike matches him glare for glare. 

“Mike, you are not irreplaceable. You will either cooperate, or we _will_ trade you.” 

“You can’t trade me.” Mike’s voice sounds oddly strained, even to his own ears. “I have a no movement clause.” 

Holmgren sighs. He reaches into his desk and pulls out a large envelope. When he upturns it, it spills out a cell phone, a cash card, and a playing card. 

Mike’s blood goes cold. Then, as subtly as he can, he reaches into the pants pocket where his SIM card is lying, and snaps it in half. 

But Holmgren’s not done, he looks at Mike briefly then reaches further into the envelope to pull out a stack of glossy photos. He flips through them, mouth twisting unpleasantly. 

Finally, he pulls one out of the stack, turns it around and slides it across the desk to Mike. It’s a picture taken at the old club, of Mike getting bent over. Mike getting _fucked._ The others are variations on the theme. 

Mike’s face heats up. He makes himself look up, look Holmgren in the eye. 

“Mike Richards, you are in violation of the morals clause of your contract,” Holmgren says mildly, lifting an eyebrow. “It rather invalidates the whole thing.” 

Mike’s jaw clenches. 

“We also have testimony that you said… ” Holmgren shuffles through some papers, puts his reading glasses on. “’Screw the Orange’s moral authority – they’re rotten, the lot of them.’” He pauses looking at Mike over the rim of his glasses. “And other things to that effect. Do you have anything to add to that?” 

Mike’s trembling too hard to speak. Because he said that to Julia. 

And Julia – 

_Julia_ had confirmed what Holmgren said – 

“Now, despite all this, my preference would be to keep you on the Orange. To keep you Captain.” Holmgren takes off his glasses and regards Mike evenly. “Do you understand why?” 

And yeah, Mike understands why. He’d be in Holmgren’s pocket. Forever. But then, apparently he always has been. “Yeah,” Mike manages, his gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it.” His hands clench. 

“However, this is more evidence than even I could suppress. More than I could keep from the Owners.” 

Mike closes his eyes. 

“But,” Holmgren continues, “once informed of the situation, and of the possibility of you keeping your captaincy, Jeff Carter was more than happy to help resolve the situation.” He taps Jeff’s face in one of the photos. 

Mike’s head snaps up. “Jeff?” 

Holmgren smiles. “Let me read to you from his sworn statement.” The glasses go back on. Holmgren clears his throat. “’I coerced Mike Richards into a sexual relationship. He participated in immoral and anti-Union acts only at my request, and because I threatened him.’” He pauses and looks significantly at Mike. 

Mike _is_ shaking now. “Where is he?” It takes him a couple tries to get the question out. 

“Well. We obviously couldn’t _keep_ him here. Not after that.” Holmgren’s eyebrows are narrowed. 

Everything abruptly goes very still. Mike lays his hands flat on the desk. _“Where is he?”_

Holmgren’s mouth twists. “That’s not really a concern of your anymore, Mike. What you need to concern yourself with is your own future. So what’s it going to be?” 

Mike looks down at his hands, at the pictures. His gaze catches on the playing card, and he picks it up. It still reads I HATE THEM and YOU HAVE **ONE** WAY OUT OF HERE, but now, in a hasty scrawl underneath, it also says: 

_I’ll miss you._

Mike looks back up at Holmgren. When he speaks, his voice sounds shockingly even. “I’ll fucking _die_ before I play for you again.” 

 

 

 

 

When he wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is. A tiny room, no bigger than a closet. A bunk. A small, sliding window. A locked door. 

It’s a cell. 

Mike crawls backwards until he hits the corner of the room. His vision is crystal-sharp at the edges. He can _hear_ his heart pounding. He breathes in sharply through his nose. 

There are footsteps coming down the corridor. The window slides open. It’s Laviolette. “Richie. This is really some mess you’ve gotten yourself into. Inconvenient for me, too.” 

Mike regards him wild-eyed. 

“Just checking in – the Taser can often produce some acute memory loss. I just thought you might want to know that you’ve been traded.” Laviolette chuckles, looks around at the small room Mike is in. “Obviously. But seriously.” His face takes on a somber look. “You’re headed to the Black. This could actually be the best thing for you, Richards. Keep that in mind.” 

“Fuck off,” Mike says. 

 

 

For a long time after that, no one comes. There’s no clock, and the lights never dim or change, so he has no idea how long it’s been. He’s not hungry. Or tired. When he hears footsteps again, he thinks it might be Holmgren, or maybe just whoever is charged with transporting him from one end of the continent to the other. 

But it’s not. It’s Julia. 

She stares at him, in his cage, for a long moment, expressionless. And then her throat works. “Mike –” 

Everything in Mike freezes up, coalesces into one point of hate. It takes him two strides to get across the room, and he’s hitting the door. “You _spied_ on us,” he spits, “you were working for him.” 

She falls back a step. “ _Mike_ – ” 

“How long?” Mike demands. 

Julia pauses. She looks sad, pitying. “Oh. Always, Mike. Since before I met you.” Her mouth twists, sharp and bitter. “Since they caught me.” 

But he is not about to feel sorry for her. Mike slams a fist into the door, and she jumps. “If I could get out of here. I would fucking kill you. Do you hear me?” 

She holds his gaze. “I warned you. I told you a thousand different ways, and you never listened to me.” 

She shakes her head at him, and there’s a _tear_ rolling down her face, and that just – “ _Fuck you_.” He turns around. It’s easier to look at the blank wall. 

“I cared about you. About Jeff. I still do.” Mike hears her take in a shuddering breath. 

Mike turns back around. “And Mya?” He spits, “And Andrew? Everyone from the club, have they all been arrested too?” 

Her eyes go hard again and her mouth flattens. “I didn’t have a choice.” 

They stare at each other. Mike’s eyes are stinging, his throat tight. “If you cared about him, if you care about him at all,” he finally manages to get out, “tell me where he is.” 

“I don’t know – ” 

“Fuck you, you lying bitch.” 

“I don’t! I swear! I heard – ” she pauses looking down the hallway, and a concerned expression flits across her face. “Mike, I heard it was to somewhere in the Central.” Mike can hear more footsteps coming now. “They’re coming for you, Mike. I have to go. I’m _sorry._ ” 

Mike turns away. Jeff’s gone. His team’s gone. He’s lost his shot at going home, and he’s here, down to nothing. Empty and stuck in an empty goddamn room. A cell. So, fuck it. Let them come.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, remember last story where I told you, like, all the divergences between the hockey I wrote about and reality? Well, AO3 only gives me 5000 characters for notes, so that's totally not going to happen here. Suffice to say, Richards and Carter played for the Flyers for 6 years, which I condensed down to 3 by combining the events of the 05-06 and 06-07 seasons, the 07-08 and 08-09 seasons, and the 09-10 and 10-11 seasons. Because of that the point tallies and season timelines are by necessity, rather off. 
> 
> "Offred", "June", and "Nick" are all characters from _The Handmaid's Tale_ by Margaret Atwood.
> 
> "Julia" is a character from George Orwell's 1984.
> 
> The story of Odysseus and the Cyclops, and the bible passage quoted by Stevens (Proverbs 16:18) are both literary warnings about hubris.
> 
> The games described however, are by and large real games, and I've put together some links to the relevant (and hopefully) interesting events [here](http://ionthesparrow.dreamwidth.org/473.html).


End file.
